Behind Every Good Man
by spotschica
Summary: . . . Is a good woman. A different perspective on the famous strike, and how it became a turning point in the life of Spot Conlon.
1. Chapter 1

"Alright what about Brooklyn? Who's got Brooklyn?" Suddenly the newsies got quiet, looking everywhere but at Jack.

"What, you're scared a Brooklyn?" he asked.

"Hey we ain't scared a Brooklyn!" Boots piped up. Then he paused, looking at his feet. "Spot Conlon, uh, makes us a little noivous," he said, quieter this time.

David saw Jack look over at a newsie leaning against the wall. The newsie, who David didn't recognize, smirked back at Jack. Jack looked at his newsies, then back at Boots.

Yeah, well he do't make me noivous. So you an me boots, we'll go to Brooklyn. Boots nodded and Jack continued, "an Dave can keep us company." Again Dave saw Jack glance over at the unknown newsie as the other boys laughed.

Dave got Jacks attention again, saying "Just as soon as you take our demands to Pulitzer."

Jack and David took Les back home before heading out to Brooklyn. They met up with Boots again at the statue and were on their way. As they neared the bridge, Jack suddenly said, "I'm surprised ya waited for us, Pocket." David jumped a little when he noticed that the newsie he had seen earlier had somehow materialized beside them. They walked along in silence for a moment, the new boy staring straight ahead, easily falling into step with them. Jack elbowed the boys arm to get his attention. "Or _didya_ wait?" he asked, his tone casual, but his face serious. Confused, David glanced over at Boots and saw that the younger boy's eyes were trained on the newcomer, his face expectant. In the silence that followed, David watched this quiet newcomer out of the corner of his eye, wondering what was going on. Jack seemed to be asking something more than what his words were saying. The four of them kept walking, Boots clearly getting impatient. David nearly tripped over his own feet when "Pocket" finally looked up with a grin, and answered in a low, throaty, but still definitely _female_ voice, " Couldn't have gone and got back already cowboy."

This answer seemed to satisfy Jack and Boots, but only left David even more bewildered. Noticing his confusion, Jack laughed loudly and stopped walking.

"Guess ya need an introduction, huh Dave? This here's Pocket, she's one a us newsies. Ya didn't meet her yestaday. Pocket, dis is David. Him and his brother Les are me new sellin partners."

Pocket looked Dave up and down, then held her hand out for him to shake. David was grateful to see she didn't spit in it first. He reached out his own hand and she grasped it firmly, he noticed her palm was just as rough and calloused as Jack's had been the day before. Despite the roughness, he couldn't help but notice how small and delicate her hand looked in his. His eyes traveled from her hand to her face, also small and delicate, with full lips, a slightly upturned nose, and wide, smoky green eyes framed by thick, dark lashes. He noticed that her thick black hair wasn't short like he had originally assumed, but tucked up under her beat up black cap. He didn't realize he was still holding her hand until she gently tugged it away. Jack raised an eyebrow at him. He looked back at Pocket, embarrassed because he knew he had been staring. He looked down at his feet, then back at her, opening his mouth to speak then realizing he didn't know what to say. Suddenly nervous, he proceeded to embarrass himself even further.

"You're a girl!" he blurted. The other three laughed.

"No kidding?" she teased, then grinned at Jack. David turned bright red. "Don't worry," she smiled at him. "You ain't da foist ta be surprised. I don' exactly go around advoitisin it."

David smiled gratefully at her, wanting to kick himself for his stupid comment. Jack laughed again, the shoved David in the arm. "Now dat we're all friends here, let's get goin'. Don't wanna spend all day in Brooklyn."

As the four started walking again, Pocket linked one arm through Jacks and her other arm with Boots. David hung back, watching her. Now that he looked closer, he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed she was a girl right away. He guessed it was just that he wasn't expecting a girl newsie, so he must have automatically assumed she was a boy. He wasn't used to seeing a girl dressed in boys clothes, either, so that hadn't helped. Watching her stride along next to his friend, he took in her attire. Her shirt, once white but now dyed grey by the grime of the city, was old and worn, but fairly clean. It was several sizes too big, hanging loosely from her small shoulders and almost completely hiding her small frame. The sleeves were rolled up several times, and the elbows were almost completely worn through. Since the shirt was so big, David had to look very carefully for even a hint of girlish curves. His perusal continued down to where her grey pants hung loosely to puddle over her shoes, the hems torn and frayed where they dragged on the street. The pants, too, were too big for her, but they clung to her hips in a way that proved the wearer was most definitely _not_ a boy.

Boots voice brought David back to the conversation, and David tore his attention away from Pocket to listen to the younger newsie. Boots was telling Pocket that he was glad she had come with them.

"Dis way, " he said, " we won't have no trouble gettin to see him. Dey all knows youse. And even bettah, " he added, "now youse can be the one ta talk to Spot."

David wondered why Boots thought Pocket was a better choice than Jack to do the talking, but before he could ask, Pocket shook her head.

"Nah Boots, dis ain't my show. Ya gonna have to do yer own talkin" she answered, now turning her head to look at Jack. "Cowboy, I hope ya don't have any ideas that I'm gonna do dis for ya?" she teased.

Jack just smiled and shook his head. "Aw, c'mon Pocket," he joked, "ya know he likes ya bettah dan us."

"He likes ya bettah dan anybody," Boots put in. "so you should definitely be da one to talk ta him."

Pocket pretended to think about it before answering, "ya right, boots, he does like me best. I think I wanna keep it dat way, so no, I ain't gonna be da one talkin"

They all laughed, and she grinned at them, once again making David forget the conversation. "But, " she continued, "I do have somethin for ya Boots." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of marbles.

"Here ya go," she handed them to Boots. "You can give him dese, dat'll be a good start."

"Yeah, might soften him up," Jack said. Pocket laughed.

"Yeah right," she joked. "soften him up." She and Boots grinned at each other and started discussing the marbles he held, their heads bent togther.

David admired the curve of her neck, slowly falling back a little so he could watch her walk. Jack noticed, and he slowed down too. He hung back with David, letting the other two get a little ahead before speaking. "Hey,' he said softly. " Don't be getting any ideas."

'What do you mean?" David asked. Jack rolled his eyes.

"Whadda I mean? You'se jokin right? I see ya lookin at her. Ya think she's pretty?" David didn't answer. Jack grabbed his arm and stopped him. They faced each other, Jack looking serious again.

"Listen Dave," he began, still keeping his voice low. "She's real pretty, and a lot of fun, too, but don't go gettin any ideas about her. Wouldn't be smart."

"Why not, "david wanted to know.

"Just trust me on this, " his friend answered., and started walking again. "Ya bettah off just forgettin about it, especially now. And when we get over da bridge, ya bettah not let anyone see ya lookin at her like that. I know ya don't mean nothin, but you starin at her ain't gonna make Brooklyn wanna listen."

David mulled over Jack's words, then asked 'Does she have a boyfriend over here or something?"

Jack didn't answer for a moment, and David asked again, "is that it?"

Jack just shook his head, and then David noticed that Pocket and Boots had stopped and were waiting for them to catch up. Before they reached there friends, Jack leaned over and whispered, "Look Dave, just don't let Spot catch you lookin at her, or I don't know if I can stop ya from gettin soaked"

David stopped in his tracks, but Jack went on ahead. After a moment, David jogged to catch up.

"So is this Spot Conlon really dangerous?" he asked. Pocket laughed.


	2. At the Docks

They made their way through Brooklyn to the docks. The Brooklyn newsies seemed bigger to David than the ones in Manhattan. A couple of guys started following them as they made their way down the docks, weaving around the boys jumping off to swim in the river. Most of the newsies stopped to stare at them as they passed, and David looked nervously at the big guy who hauled himself out of the water to stand in Jacks way

"Goin somewhere, Kelly?" he taunted.

Jack just ignored him and kept going, his face blank. Boots didn't falter either, but David could see that his shoulders were tense and he kept his eyes on the boys around him. The guy looked at David next, giving him a hard glare and david silently wondered what he had gotten himself into. He hadn't been fond of this idea in the first place, but now he was really wishing he'd stayed in Manhattan. He wasn't much of a fighter, and these guys didn't look too happy to see them. He glanced over at Pocket, hoping she couldn't tell how nervous he was. She wasn't even looking his way, she was nodding at the boys they passed, not seeming uncomfortable at all. The guy who had intimidated David now stood in front of her, blocking her way.

"What about you, where you goin" he sneered at her.

David looked quickly at Jack to see if he had noticed this new threat to their companion, but Jack and Boots hadn't even turned around. He looked back at Pocket, who barely broke stride. She, too, simply stepped around him, raising an eyebrow when he moved too, staying in front of her.

"Let me by, Fiver," she said evenly.

He moved aside and she walked on. Now David was even more intrigued by this girl who walked blithely among so many strong, mean looking guys without even blinking an eye. A lot of them were half dressed, too, since they had been swimming, but she didn't seem to be bothered by that either. His sister would have been beside herself.

They neared the end of the dock where a slim boy in a grey cap sat perched atop some crates, watching their approach.

"Well if it ain't Jack- be -nimble Jack- be-quick," he looked down at them, his face a blank mask.

"So you moved up in da woild, Spot. Got a river view and everything."

Jack's face, too, was carefully composed. Spot jumped down off his throne, a gold tipped cane in his hand, and the two leaders stood there for a second, not speaking, before they a grin split the Manhattan leaders face. He spit in his hand and extended it, the Brooklyn leader grinned back and they spit-shook. Jack patted Spot on the shoulder as the smaller boy slid the cane into his belt loop.

His tone more friendly now, he greeted Boots, "Heya Boots how's it rollin?"

Boots approached, holding out his hand but keeping his distance. "I got ya a coupla real good shooters heah."

David saw that Boots was holding the marbles Pocket had given him earlier. Spot reached over and took them, then spoke to Jack as he pulled out his slingshot.

"So Jacky boy, I been hearin things from da liddle boidies."

"Yeah?"

"Things from Harlem, queens," the Brooklyn leader aimed his slingshot over Davids head. "All ovah." David jumped as a bottle shattered above his head and Spot nodded, satisfied.

"They been chirpin in my ear,"he continued, walking towards david. "Jacky boys newsies is playing like they goin on strike." His tone was mocking, and he turned to look back at Jack.

David stepped up, "But we're not playing, we are on strike."

As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted it. The other newsie came closer, right up in his face

"Oh yeah? Yeah?'

David nodded hesitantly, wondering if he was about to get hit. Despite the fact that David was a few inches taller than the other newsie, he was definitely worried by what he saw in those pale eyes. Spot kept his narrowed gaze on David.

"What is the Jacky boy?" he bit out. "Some kind of walking mouth?"

Jack wasn't afraid of Spot Conlon; Brooklyn and Manhattan had always been on good terms, especially since Spot took charge. But he did know that you had to be careful with Spot, stay on your toes. His Brooklyn counterpart wasn't thrilled about David jumping in like that, it would have been better coming from a fellow leader. This wasn't how he planned it, and he had to think fast to figure out how to make Spot listen. He shot a quick look over at Pocket, who stood off to the side and hadn't spoken yet. Her expression didn't change, but she casually crossed her arms and leaned against a post. She caught Jacks look and flicked her eyes towards spot. No one else noticed the exchange, but Jack got the message. She was telling him not to take his attention off Spot - but to keep cool, act like this wasn't a big deal.

'Yeah it's a mouth," he answered finally. "But a mouth with a brain, and if you got half a one ya listen ta what he's got ta say."

Jack knew he'd played it right when Spot sat down and looked at David, waiting. The Brooklyn leader's face was stern and David hesitated, but Jack knew that he had challenged the other boy into listening. He stood next to Pocket as David explained they needed the rest of the New York newsies to support the strike, but that nobody would join unless Brooklyn did. Pocket nudged him in the ribs, they both struggled not to smile as David flattered Spots ego, calling him the most respected and famous newsie in all of New York. Spot was amused too, smirking at David as he finished his little speech.

"Ya right Jack," he told the Manhattaner. "Brains."

Jack grinned, thinking things were going to turn out all right. Brooklyn would join the strike, and with their support they had a good chance of winning.

"But I got brains too, and more than just half a one." Spot continued.

Jack's grin faded as he realized that Brooklyn wouldn't be joining them. Spot didn't think they were serious, and he wasn't ready to help out until he saw that the newsies would win. Jack swallowed his disappointment, knowing that there was no arguing with Spot at this point. He just nodded, and turned to walk away. Boots started after him, and David started to follow until he noticed that Pocket hadn't moved.

She still leaned against the post, her eyes on Spot as he watched them leave. He turned toward her, and nodded, the first indication since their arrival that he even knew she was there. She nodded back and he motioned her toward him. She looked over at David, seeing that he was waiting for her. She smiled and nodded, pointing towards Jack.

Reluctantly David turned to go. At the end of the dock he looked back and saw her deep in conversation with the Brooklyn leader, who didn't look happy. Their heads were close together, their voices low, but David could tell Spot kept interrupting Pocket every time she started to speak. She put her hand on his arm, which finally silenced him. He leaned in more, watching her, their faces an inch apart as she spoke.

Understanding dawned on David, he turned to go with Jack. Obviously there was something going on with Spot and Pocket, this must be why Jack had warned him off. He sighed, looking down at his feet, wondering why he was so disappointed by this. He had only just met her, after all. Why should it bother him if she already had a boyfriend?

Odd, though, he thought, that Jack had introduced her as a Manhattan newsie. David couldn't be sure, but Spot Conlon seemed like the type of guy that would want his girlfriend with him, not halfway across New York. He wanted to ask Jack, but his friend was deep in thought, his brow furrowed, his shoulders slumped.

Brooklyns support was important, but David thought the strike could go on without. It seemed to him that Spots refusal was a blow to Jack on a personal level, Jack had obviously expected more from a friend.

The three newsies walked in silence toward the bridge, each lost in his own thoughts.

"Cowboy! Wait up!"

They turned at the sound of Pockets voice. She ran up, leaning on Jack to catch her breath.

"Cowboy," she said. "Jack, I'm sorry, ya know. I hoped he's say yes."

For almost a full minute the two just looked at each other. Finally Jack answered.

"Ya hoped he'd say yes, I know, Pocket. But did ya think he was gonna?"

Pocket blinked, taken aback by the question. She seemed to be considering her words carefully. Then she sighed and shook her head.

"No. I didn't. Not yet. Not taday."She paused. "but ya did good, Jack. There wasn't nothin else ya coulda said to change his mind."

Jack sighed too, and rubbed his hands over his face in frustration. Then he looked at her again. "Pocket, I need to know something."

"Yeah, sure Jack."

"How come ya didn't go to spot on your own? Why didya wait for me? I know he didn't like that. Maybe if you had gone first, he would been ready to listen to us."

Pocket shook her head. "Spot has "boidies" in 'hattan, Cowboy, but I ain't one a dem. It ain't right if I run back to him all the time with what's goin on here. I would neva do that. Bronx and Coney Island, sure, I keep him informed about them, but youse are my friends."

She punched jack in the shoulder. "Besides, its your show, bigshot" she teased.

"Then why'd you come with?" Jack persisted.

Again, she seemd to be choosing her words carefully. "Cuz, Jack, I wanted him to know that I'se wit you on this."

She waited for it to sink in. "I guess I need to make sure you know I'm wit you on this, huh?"

Jack gave her a hug. "I know Pocket. Thanks. You coming home or staying here?"

"I'm staying here tanight, got some things ta take care of. I'll be back early in da mornin."

He nodded, "See ya tamarra."

She turned to Boots, tapping the bill of his hat. "See ya Boots. Keep ya head up." The younger boy smiled.

David flushed as she turned to him next. "Bye mouth," she teased. "Nice ta meet ya."

"Bye" he mumbled.

They started across the bridge, but they had only gone a few steps before she called out again.

"Hey Jack?' They all looked at her.

"Jack, ya know, he did listen. And he won't forget, either. He'll remember that ya axed him for help."

With those parting words, she turned and jogged off toward the dock


	3. Chapter 3

Pocket kicked a stone, watching it bounce of the curb and roll down the street, kicking up dust. She shoved her hands into her pockets and stared at the ground, too caught up in her thoughts to hear footsteps behind her. A hand touched her arm, and she jumped, startled, then tensed up, ready to fight. Her tension eased when she realized who was beside her.

"Heya Slips," she greeted the blonde haired ten year old. "You headin back to Manhattan already?"

The small boy nodded at her, adjusting his cap on his sweaty forehead.

"Wanted to rest a bit, yeah? But Spot figgered I bettah head back quick, keep an eye on things." Pocket patted the little "boidie" on the shoulder, then handed him a dime.

"When ya get back to Hattan, stop over to Tibby's foist. Get ya some food. Ya desoive it." Slips gratefully pocketed the coin, grinning up at her.

"But don't stay to long, " she cautioned. "Ya don't wanna miss nothing." He nodded. "And Slips, if anything happens, and ya can't find Spot, come to me foist, alright?" Again, the small boy nodded, then turned and ran off at top speed. Pocket watched him go before setting off toward the docks.

Spot was back atop his crates when she returned. His posture was relaxed, his face calm, but the rapid tapping of his fingers against the gold tip of his cane betrayed his tension. He nodded at Pocket as she approached, but didn't speak. She, too, remained silent, merely nodding in response before joining a group of boys playing cards. A couple of hands later, she raked her winnings into a pile in front of her, smirking at the other newsies.

"Boys, your generous donations is much appreciated. "

The boys muttered good natured insults as she stood and pocketed her take. Pale blue eyes followed her as she crossed the dock, the same gaze she had felt on her through three hands of poker. Aware of his scrutiny, she made her way down the dock, in the direction of home. She knew he wouldn't be long.

"Fiver!"

The mean looking newsie who'd accosted Jack and David earlier that day jogged over to his leader.

"Yeah Spot?"

"I'se goin' in. Keep an eye on da boys."

Fiver caught Spot's arm as he brushed past, causing the smaller boy to raise an eyebrow.

"Ya got somethin ta say?"

Clearing his throat, Fiver removed his hand from the other newsies arm.

"Just thought you should know, Conlon . . . That kid what came in wit Kelly taday?"

"Da Mouth?"

"Yeah."

"What about 'im?"

Fiver hesitated, then took a quick step back, anticipating the reaction his next words would get.

"He, uh . . ." taking another step back, "he was lookin pretty close at Pocket." He paused, looking at his feet, then went on. "I mean, he . . . ya know . . . "

His words trailed off as he realized that he was talking to empty air.

The Brooklyn Newsies stepped hastily aside as their king strode purposefully down the dock, his cane tapping his leg with each step.

One of the reasons that the newsies of Brooklyn were so tough that Brooklyn, itself, was no picnic. The buildings were broken, the streets were dirty, trash and empty bottles dotted the landscape. In Manhattan, the boys at the Lodging House had it pretty good. A place to come home to, warm in the winter, dry in the rain, clean sheets, and kind hearted old Kloppman with their best interests at heart. Not so in Brooklyn. The crumbling warehouse that served as their barracks was run by a fat, mean drunk called Hadley. He mocked and belittled the newsies when he was drinkng, growled and threw things at them when he was sober. During the cold winter months, the boys braced themselves against the harsh winds that found entrance through the many broken windows. What few windows remained intact were so caked with dirt they blocked out light. Rats didn't bother to hide in the Brooklyn Lodging House, but ran boldly across the grimy bedsheets, drinking water from the puddles where rain leaked through the holes in the roof. On days like this one, the summer heat thickened the air, but the newsies of Brooklyn had long since grown immune to the heavy stench of sweat, smoke, and trash.

Spot Conlon burst into the lodging house, his jaw clenched, one hand tightened around his cane, the other fisted at his side. He stopped at the door and took a calming breath. Rumbling snores told him Hadley was already laid out on his cot in the office, dead to the world.

"_Good_." Spot thought. "_I'm not in the mood to deal with that fat fuck today._"

Passing quickly through the open room that housed the bunks, he didn't even bother looking around. At this time of day, all of his boys were either out selling the last of their papes or down at the docks. And he knew she wouldn't be in here. Taking the short flight of stairs two at a time, he reached the small loft where he spent his nights. His newsies all slept in the bunkroom, sometimes two or three to a bunk, even on the floor, but as king he had a space of his own, a space no one else was permitted in, except Pocket.

He found her sitting on his narrow bed, counting the money she'd one at cards. She knew he was there, but didn't look up.

"Guess ya gonna be needin some extra cash now," he observed, coming over to stand in front of her.

She stopped counting and looked up at him, dark brows raised inquiringly.

"Since ya ain't gonna be sellin no papes for a while," he explained.

Pocket held his gaze, cool green eyes meeting hard blue as she answered the question he hadn't asked outright.

"No, I ain't gonna be sellin papes for a while," she agreed, then resumed counting.

He sighed and sat down heavily on the bed, watching as she counted the last coin and pocketed the money. Several minutes passed as they sat, not speaking, his eyes on the ceiling, hers on the floor. Eventually Spot spoke.

"Ya shuah bout dis?"

Pocket shifted slightly, leaning a little closer, her shoulder barely touching his. Even this small contact was comforting, and he felt some of the days tension leave him.

" Course I'se sure," she told him.

She may have divided her time between Brooklyn and Manhattan, spending half of her days with her friends, the other half here with Spot, but she was a Manhattan newsie at heart. The idea of staying out of the strike hadn't even entered her mind.

Once again they lapsed into silence. Head tipped to one side, Pocket searched his face, noting the worry that tightened his lips almost imperceptibly. No one but her would have seen it; to most that he encountered, the Brooklynite was an enigma, unreadable. Spot Conlon was very skilled at hiding his thoughts, showing no emotion. His control was such that no one ever gleaned anything from his expression that he didn't want them too. Only Pocket, over the years, had learned to see the tiny details that slipped through the mask. He watched her study him, knew what she saw.

"Dey can't do it wid'out Brooklyn, Pocket," he declared, his voice gruff.

She smiled sadly. "They gonna hafta, though, aren't they Spot?" Her soft words were a statement, not a question. To him they were an accusation.

"I can't jump into this just cuz Jacky Boy got it inta his head ta be a strike leadah," he defended. She crossed her arms, glaring at him.

"Jack Kelly is standing up for something," she said hotly.

" Fa what, though?" Spot questioned. "Pulitzer ain't gonna give in ta no newies. Somebody else'll sell his papes and anybody who don't is gonna starve."

Pocket sat up straighter, green eyes bright with temper. "So what, we should just sit back and let them jack up the prices? Dontcha think 'dose pennies mean more ta us than dey do ta Pulitzer?"

"I ain't saying its right,"he shot back," An' I ain't sayng it ain't gonna hoit."

Flopping back onto the bed, he rubbed his hands over his face. "But I gotta think about me boys. Hadley don't let nobody stay here if dey don't got da penny for da night. We stop selling papes taday, we'll be out on our asses tamarra."

"So instead ya just gonna sit back and take what they give us?" she challenged.

He put a hand on her shoulder, closing his eyes against the tingle of electricity that shot through his skin. Without realizing, he began to softly stroke her back, the tenderness of his actions at odds with his grim response.

"Pride and big ideas nevah kept nobody from starvin'. Brooklyn ain't know place to be wid'out money."

Troubled, she laid back next to him. His arm automatically went around her, pulling her close, head pillowed on his shoulder. He pulled off her hat, watching as her thick black hair tumbled down around them.

"It's my job to look after my boys," he reminded her.

Spot had only been twelve years old when he took over Brooklyn, and for a while it had been a constant struggle to hold on to his power and prove he could lead. Fours years later, he still took his duties very seriously.

She sighed against his neck, and he fought to control his reaction. He reached up to stroke her hair, its softness soothing to his calloused fingers.

Pocket knew he was right. Giving up their only source of income was a huge risk for the newsies. But they both knew money wasn't his only reason.

"Don't you think he can do it?" she asked him, placing a hand on his chest.

Immediately, Spot forgot their conversation and wondered at how right it felt to hold her. His heart beat strongly under her hand, her body fit neatly tucked into his. They'd been friends for years, and he'd never let anyone as close to him as Pocket. She knew everything about him, and he knew the same about her.

He was the King of Brooklyn, and girls were drawn to both his power and his looks. Though he flirted a bit, he never did anything close to what his reputation was. Instead he was content to spend most of his time with Pocket, talking, playing cards, or just sitting in companionable silence. The nights she wasn't in Brooklyn he went on dates, mostly to protect his image. With those girls Spot was slick and coldly charming. With Pocket, he was just himself.

Thankfully, she had never shown much of an interest in other boys. She teased and flirted with some of the Manhattan boys, but seemed just as happy as he was to spend most of her time with just him.

For while now though, they had both noticed a change, a new awareness. Without actually saying anything, they had admitted to each other that their friendship was developing a new aspect. But for now, both were reluctant to change the way things had always been.

A light tap on his chest brought him out of his reverie, and she repeated her question. "You don't think he can do it, do you?"

He turned to face her, their noses almost touching. She closed her eyes, lethargic, as she awaited his answer.

"Not really," he admitted. " I don't. Jack won't outlast Pulitzer. A couple a days and he'll have ta give in, and den dey'll all be in woise shape dan when dey started." Pausing, he took a second to appreciate the fullness of her lips and the curve of her cheek. "Jack can have his little strike," he told her. "I'se stayin in Brooklyn and sellin' me papes." His arms tightened around her. "An' I think you should too. Be safer for ya here where I can look afta ya."

Pocket jerked upright, indignant. " I can take care of myself, Spot Conlon. Been doing it since long before I evah knew _you_!"

Spot sat up too, irritated that she wouldn't listen to him, "I know you can," he ground out, trying to keep his temper in check, " But dere's gonna be a lot of fightin. I'd feel bettah if you was here. I'll worry about ya if you'se in Manhattan."

Mouth set in a firm line, she glared down at him. "Well if ya so worried, you should come to Manhattan and make sure I'se safe." He didn't say anything. Placing a hand on his leg, she leaned into him, right up in his face. "I'm in this strike, Spot" she informed him. "I'se stayin in Brooklyn tonight, but foist thing tamarra, I'm goin back to Manhattan. Probably won't back here until da whole thing is ovah."

Spot could see the determination in her eyes and knew he wouldn't be able to change her mind. He flopped back onto the bed, muttering to himself.

"Who evah hoid a newsies goin on strike?"

She snuggled back into him, arm draped across his chest.

Who evah hoid of a twelve year old takin Brooklyn?"

Spot stopped arguing.


	4. David asks questions

The day hadn't gotten much better for Jack and David after they left Brooklyn. Spot's refusal to join the strike was disheartening to the rest of the Manhattan newsies, who wondered if maybe they should slack off a little. Despite the fact they it took very little to lift their spirits again, Jack started to wonder if maybe Spot was right. _Did _they have what it took to win?

A fight broke out when some scabs tried to by papes at the distribution office, and the newsies had a grand time, pelting Weasel and the Delancey brothers with tomatoes, throwing papers around the yard. But then the police showed up, and it all went downhill from there. Crutchy didn't get out the gates in time, and the last David saw of him, Oscar and Morris were dragging him off around a corner before turning him over to the police.

Later that evening, the newsies sulked around the lodging house. Jack, especially, took Crutchy's capture badly. As the leader, and as Crutchy's friend, he felt guilty that he hadn't been able to save him. He slouched moodily off by himself in a corner, a dark look on his normally sunny face. The other boys talked quietly among themselves, pausing now and then to throw quick looks over at their leader. Suddenly, he stood up and addressed the room.

"We ain't lettin him stay there," he declared. He looked at David. "You an' me Dave, we're gettin him out. Tanight." Then he stalked out onto the street.

His announcement cheered the other boys up considerably, but David was confused. He nudged Racetrack in the arm, asking him "What's he talking about Race? Get Crutchy out of where?"

Racetrack looked surprised for a minute, then obviously remembered that David didn't have the street smarts that the newsies took for granted. "The refuge. Crutchy'll be in the refuge. Dat's what happens to street rats like us, Dave, when we get in trouble. We go to jail."

"And we're going to break him out of this refuge? Is that going to work?" David wanted to know.

The Italian boy took a moment to answer, chewing thoughtfully on his cigar. "I dunno Dave. Only guy I evah hoid of got out of the refuge is Jack." He stopped again, visibly depressed by the thought. Then he brightened.

"But I guess if anybody could break Crutchy outta that hellhole it would be Jack. " He patted David's back and grinned. "Cheer up Davey, no point in mopin around. I shuah hope I ain't the one dat's gotta tell Pocket, though," he mused.

David perked up at the mention of the girl newsie he'd met earlier that day.

"Why's that?" he questioned his friend, eager to find out more about the girl who had so fascinated him.

Racetrack blew out a puff of air and shook his head sadly. "She's gonna be real upset when she finds out Crutchy's in the refuge. She always tried ta look out for 'im, ya know? Ain't gonna take it well that she wasn't here to help him."

"She and Crutchy are close, then?"

"Yeah, real close. Matter o' fact, da only time she ain't wit Crutchy is when she's with Blink, or me." The little Italian grinned, then added "Or in Brooklyn."

Seeing the perfect opportunity to steer the conversation to what he really wanted to know, David tried to act casual. "So she spends a lot of time in Brooklyn, then? Why's that?" He couldn't help leaning forward a little, and Racetrack narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Why ya wanna know so much about Pocket alla the sudden? Ya just met her yesterday."

"Just curious, is all. I never heard of a girl newsie before," David hastily explained. "How'd she end up here, anyway?"

"Oh, that's a good story!" his friend, explained, suspicion forgotten in his love of a good tale. David relaxed a little, glad that he had succeeded in distracting Race, but disappointed that he had lost his chance to find out if Pocket was Spot's girl.

"This woulda been about five years ago," Racetrack began, nodding at Blink, who had just sat down to join them. "Back when Roller was in charge around here. Us newsies were here at the lodging house, not really doin nothing, an' Blink comes runnin in with some little kid behind him. Don't say nothin ta none us, just hauls ass upstairs. Natch'rally, Roller goes upstairs ta investigate. Couldna been but ten seconds later, in comes in comes a copper with dis snooty lookin banker type behind him. Says they's lookin for a pickpocket what stole that guy's wallet. Don't take much brains to know da kid upstairs wit' Blink hadda be da same one took da wallet."

"Coise, he axed us all had we seen dis kid, but no self-respectin newsies evah turned a kid ovah to da bulls just for tryin ta make a livin." Blink nodded his agreement. "We all said we ain't seen nothin. I could see da copper didn't believe us, so I quick points out da window, yellin ' Hey is that da kid ya lookin for officer?'" the two newises laughed, remembering.

"So da little snooty one runs out da door yellin, and da law ain't got no choice but ta go after him. Then we all sat and waited for Roller to come down and tell us who da kid was." Here Racetrack stopped his story and looked at Blink. "Maybe you bettah tell this part."

"I was down da block, at the market, tryin' to get me some dinnah, and there's this spiffy rich guy there, yellin at the fruit lady cuz her apples aren't ripe enough. Caught me eye, he did, yellin so loud. Had the fruit lady in tears. Finally he's on his way, and I'se watchin him go, right? Don't know why, just watched him leave. Then I see this little kid, real small, run out from behind a wagon and bump into this man. They both fall over, he jumps up yellin about da doit on his clothes, an' da kid just runs. Didn't get more'n two steps when the richie notices his wallet ain't where he left it. Ya shoulda hoid him, Dave" the blond boys one good eye lit with humor. "Screamin 'bout street rats and no good kids, callin for da bulls. So here comes this fat copper, da man points out da kid, and they both start chasin. Got him by the shirt, and I knew this poor chump was goin' straight ta the refuge. Kid got loose though, and ran da othah way, right at me. I hears a whistle, and dis other cops runnin up from behind me, an' know da kids got no chance. I rememba wishin I could help da kid out, but I didn't wanna end up in da refuge too. 'Den we got lucky—a wagon goin' by loses some boxes off da top, and at da same time da trolley comes through. I saw a chance when nobody was lookin and I grabbed da kid and we ran back here."

"Roller comes up, says its alright ta hide here for a bit, but da kid don't even listen ta him. Too busy yellin at me cuz da wallet got lost whiles we was runnin." Here Racetrack elbowed David, amused by the story, and Blink waited for him to stop laughing before he continued.

"Roller gets right in da kids face and says ta shut up or find a new place ta hide. Kid shuts up, but just glares at Roller, mad- like. One a da boys comes up and says da bulls just been here, and Roller tells the kid maybe pickin pockets ain't da best way to make a livin no more. Lemme tell ya, da kid did not like that at all. Eyes watered up good, but still didn't cry. Just put on this fake deep voice, tryin ta sound tougher and says ' How'm I gonna get money, den? I gots ta eat.' Roller softens up and says 'Well ya could always be a newsie, like us. Den ya'd have money ya didn't hafta steal, and a place ta sleep, too.' Always was one for takin in strays, was Roller. So da kid sits there, thinkin about it for a while, then says ta roller, 'Well show me where I'se sleepin, den, cuz all dat runnin made me tired'." Race slapped a hand on his knee, laughing and Blink grinned at him before continuing.

"Next morning, Roller got the kid some papes, told us we had a new kid, and evah since then, Pocket's been one of da Manhattan newsies." Blink finished his story, and Race jumped in.

"Took to it real good, too. After da foist coupla days Pocket was up to sellin 'bout 50 papes a day. Now she's up close t'a hundred. Nat'ral talent, that's what that is," he declared. "An' speakin' a nat'ral talent, my friends, who would like ta join me in friendly card game?"

Blink got up and shook his head, walking away, and the gambler turned to David. "What about you, Dave?" But David had more questions.

"Did you know she was a girl from the beginning?" he wanted to know.

"Huh?" Reacetrack had already shifted his attention to finding his cards, and stared at David blankly, not knowing what he meant.

"Oh, Pocket," he realized. "Nah, we didn't find that out for a coupla years. Then when we did find out we all wondered how we didn't see it right off."

He grinned, patting his pockets in search of his cards. " Don't think about it so much now, though. Pocket don't make a big thing out of it, won't let us treat her any different. Says just cuz she's a goil don't mean she can't do everything we can. Smokes, drinks, plays a mean game of poker, and pretty good in a fight, too. 'Bout the only thing she won't do is take her clothes of ta go swimmin in Brooklyn. So ya gonna play cards with me or not?"

"No thanks, don't want to lose the little money I have," David told him, wondering how to ask his next question. "So, is that where she was yesterday? In Brooklyn?" He saw that the other newsie was getting suspicious again, and rushed to explain. "I wondered because I didn't meet her yesterday when I met all of you. You said she's a newsie, right?"

Race looked dubious, but answered anyway. "Can't say for sure. She's in Brooklyn just as much as she is here, so that's probably where she was. Never know, though. Sometimes, when we'se lookin for her, she ain't in either place for a coupla days and she nevah tells us where she's been. Jack don't say too much about it since she nevah gets in no trouble. Says if it's ok with Spot, its ok with him. She went ta Brooklyn with you'se taday, right?" he asked. David nodded, and Race sighed. "She's still there then, they'll be talkin about the strike."

"Do you think she'll change her mind?" David asked.

"Whatcha mean, change her mind?"

"You know, after talking to Spot." David explained. "Will she still want to be a part of the strike?"

Racetrack looked confused. "Pockets been part of the strike from the foist, Davey, you were there."

"Well, yeah, but I thought since she stayed in Brooklyn . . ." he trailed off as Racetrack snorted with laughter.

"An ya thought that since Spot Conlon didn't want ta join the strike, then Pocket wouldn't either? Boy do you have it all wrong. Ain't nobody tells Pocket what to do except Pocket, and if she wants to strike, Brooklyn ain't gonna stop her." He laughed again at the thought.

This didn't make sense to David. "I just thought that she would want to go along with her boyfriend, that's all," he muttered.

"Numbah one, Dave, I just toldja Pocket don't let nobody tell her what to do. Numbah two," Race stuck out a second finger, "Spot ain't Pocket's boyfriend."

David visibly brightened at this news. "He's not? Then why . . .?" he almost let it slip that Jack had warned him away from his newfound attraction, but Racetrack interrupted him.

"Oh, I get it now, Davey. Dis is why you'se askin so many questions." The little gambler crossed his arms smugly. "You'se got da hots for Pocket, dontcha?"

Embarrassed, David shushed him and shook his head. "No, just curious is all." But Racetrack was an expert at reading people, and David's poker face was a joke. The flush that darkened his cheeks gave him away.

"Alright now, Dave, ya gotta listen ta me," no longer laughing, the veteran newsie fixed David with a hard stare. "I know ya think Pocket's real pretty, an' she is, but ya bettah stop thinking 'bout her right now. It's bettah that way."

Once again, confusion marred the face of the eldest Jacobs boy. "Jack said the same thing, but I don't get it. Does she have a boyfriend or not? And if she doesn't, then who's going to mind if I look at her?"

"She ain't nobody's girlfriend, but she's still ain't available. Her an' Spot been friends for a long time, and he gets most . . . unpleasant when guys pay too much attention to her."

Swallowing nervously, David asked "What do you mean, unpleasant?"

"I mean you don't wanna find out," Racetrack said firmly. "Bout this time last year there was a kid that stayed with us, name a Chips. Week after he got here, Spot and a couple of his boys was here playin poker, and Spot happened to overhear Chips telling one of the guys in Queens that he thought Pocket was a looker. Beat his ass good, broke his nose, coupla ribs."

Jack came back in then, and told David they would go for Crutchy as soon as it got dark, then headed upstairs.

"Heya wait up Cowboy," Race called after him. He stood and stretched, then looked down at David. "Last I hoid Chips was down in Jersey," he told him. "Ain't been back since. Too scared. An' all he did was say that Pocket was pretty." With those parting words he turned to the stairs, leaving David to his thoughts.


	5. What about Crutchy?

10

Slips found Fiver standing on the dock watching the younger boys splash each other.

"Where's Spot?" he panted, having run all the way from Manhattan.

The older boy let him catch his breath, then pointed in the direction of the lodging house. Without a word, the little boy dashed off, leaving Fiver to wonder what had happened.

Spot sat up at the sound of his name, waking Pocket when she fell of his shoulder. She rubbed her eyes sleepily, blinking up at him.

"What's wrong?" she asked groggily.

"Slips is here," he told her.

"Manhattan?" she asked, eyes widening. Jumping up, she hurried to the stairs, Spot right behind her.

Slips was waiting in the bunkroom.

"What's wrong," Pocket blurted, still shoving her hair up under her cap.

The little spy hesitated, looking at Spot. Usually he gave his reports in private, and he wasn't sure about talking in front of Pocket. At his leader's nod of permission, he told them his news.

" Dere was a fight at da distribution office. Da bulls came."

He stopped again looking at Spot, unsure if he should continue. Pocket tapped her foot impatiently and resisted the urge to shake him.

"Then what?" the older boy prompted. "Did they all get away?"

Slips shook his head. "Not everybody. Dey got dat one crippled kid."

Pocket swore and kicked the wall, causing Slips to take a nervous step back. Spot didn't react, just narrowed his eyes and glared at his informant.

"There's more," he demanded. "What else?"

Gulping, the ten year old looked at his feet. Even though he knew he wasn't in trouble, Slips had a healthy respect for Spot's temper, and the leader never reacted well to bad news. He continued to stare at his shoes until Spot growled a warning.

Sighing, he finished, "Da Delancey bruddas got ahold a him foist. Can't be a good thing." Pocket swore again. "Kelly figures da gimp's in da refuge now, plans ta go afta him tanight."

"Anything else?" He shook his head. "Get some rest,"Spot ordered. Ya got till dark, then I need ya back in Manhattan."

Slips nodded gratefully and headed to his bunk. His eyes were closed before his head hit the pillow. Spot turned and walked to the door.

"C'mon," he called over his shoulder. "Let's go find somthin' ta eat."

"What!" Pocket exclaimed. "Whaddya mean."

"I mean I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

She stomped acroos the room, eyes flashing. "That's it?" she fumed. "Crutchy's in jail, and you wanna go _eat_?"

Spot shrugged. "It's dinnah time."

For a second, Pocket looked like she wanted to slug him. She settled for poking him in the chest and said, "Fine. Go get some food. I'll be in Manhattan." She pushed past him to open the door.

"What?" he asked, startled. He put a hand on the door to keep her from opening it, irritating her further. "I thought you was stayin in Brooklyn tanight."

"Well not _now_! I gotta go back. I'm gonna help 'em get Crutchy."

Spot grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the stairs. She tried to pull away from him but he only glared and kept walking.

"Stop it," he ordered sternly.

"You stop it," she shot back. "I ain't goin upstairs. I'm goin home. Crutchy's in jail, and my friends need me." Her voice rose steadily until she was yelling. "AND YOU AIN"T STOPPIN ME!"

"Quit yellin," he told her, giving her a shove toward the loft. "We're gonna talk about this."

She dug in her heels and refused to move. "So let's talk then. We don't gotta be upstairs to talk."

"Yes," he argued,"We do. Da boys'll start comin in any minute and they ain't gonna find ya in hear screamin ya head off at me. Now take your ass upstairs."

She opened her mouth to protest, then decided against it and stomped up the stairs. He followed her into his room and sat on his bed, motioning her to sit beside him. She stayed where she was, arms crossed defiantly. He rolled his eyes.

'Look," he stated flatly. "There's no reason for you to go all the way back across the bridge tanight. You should just stay here like ya planned and head back in da morning. Nothin for you ta do till tamarra anyway."

"I told you," she informed him in a mock patient tone. "I'm gonna help get Crutchy out. I ain't waitin till morning. I'm goin now."

"I don't want ya goin back now," he announced, as if that that settled it.

"I don't need your permission."

He stood and crossed the room to join her, looking down at her face. Spot wasn't very tall, but Pocket was tiny, and she had to tilt her head to look up at him. They glared at each other for almost a full five minutes before he threw up his hands in disgust.

"I know you're upset about Crutchy," he huffed. "But ya gotta think about it. Ya really think Jack's gonna be able ta get him out? Let him try. He must have some kinda plan, and he don't need ya taggin along, gettin in da way," he reasoned. "You'll only get in trouble."

"Don't ya care about Crutchy?" she whispered, confused.

Pocket understood why he had refused to join the strike. She was disappointed, knowing it would be harder without Brooklyn, but she respected his decision and wouldn't push him. She even understood why he didn't want to be part of the rescue attempt. Spot had spent a year in the refuge when he was nine, and now he wouldn't go near the place. Not that she blamed him. But that didn't mean she couldn't go. She was hurt that he didn't seem to care.

"Sure I do," he answered her, putting his hands on her shoulders. 'It's a tough break for da kid, an' I hope they can get 'im out. But that don't mean I want you goin. If I thought ya'd just go back ta da lodging house, that'd be one thing. But I know ya, you'll have ta go along, and Jack's no good at keepin ya safe."

"I can take care of myself," she reminded him for the second time that day.

He put his arms around her and pulled her close, resting his cheek on her head. "Most of tha time ya can, I know that. But if ya get caught breakin inta tha refuge, they'll send ya ta jail. Is that what ya want?"

"Ya ain't worried about Jack gettin caught," she accused, holding herself stiff in his embrace.

"Jack's not you."

"Why are you being so stubborn?" she complained.

"I just want you to be safe!" he exclaimed, arms tightening around her. "It's bad enough I can't stop ya from goin on strike, but I know its important to ya. Do ya have to go lookin for more problems?"

Pocket didn't answer, and he searched his brain for a way to convince her.

"Can't ya just go back to Manhattan and wait there, and _not_ go to tha refuge?" He tried a compromise. "It'll be dark soon, if ya wait, ya can go back with Slips. But ya gotta promise ta stay outta trouble." He tilted her face up to his, blue eyes soft, and spoke softly, almost pleadingly. "Can you promise that for me? Please, Katie."

It was the name that did it. She could never say no to Spot when he used her name. She stopped resisting and relaxed into him, and he hugged her close.

"I promise," she mumbled into his chest. He let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Finally," he joked. "Now can we go eat?"

Laughing, she pulled away from him slightly, and stuck out her tongue. He grinned at her, and she smiled back. He found his eyes drawn to her mouth and his chest felt tight. Pocket stopped smiling when she felt him tense up and his face went serious.

"Spot?"

He said her name again. "Katie."

Then he leaned down and kissed her softly. The young leader closed his eyes and held perfectly still, enjoying the feel of soft lips. She hesitated, then moved closer, pressing her lips to his. That was his undoing. Unable to help himself, he held her tightly, lifting her in his arms as his mouth moved on hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and to his surprise they parted for him. He slid inside her mouth, exploring, and after a moment her tongue met his. Suddenly he couldn't breathe. He deepened the kiss, demanding more, one hand on her back, the other cupping her face. She pressed against him, reaching up to knock his hat off and bury her hands in his light brown hair. Growling, he whirled them around and backed her against the wall. Panting, he tore his mouth away, pulling back to look at her.

Her skin was flushed, her lips damp and parted. Clumsily, her yanked the hat off her head and watched her hair fall around her shoulders. Tossing the hat over his shoulder, he reached out and ran one finger along a curling black tendril, then along her jaw. He held his finger to the fullness of her lower lip, his eyes never leaving hers. When the pink, wet tip of her tongue darted out to taste his fingertip he nearly lost his mind. Shoving a hand in her hair, he wrapped it around his fist and pulled her head up to his.

She whimpered as he attacked her mouth and he thought he had scared her with his intensity. Ashamed, he started to pull back but she would have none of it. Clutching his shoulders, she bit his lip gently, causing him to groan into her mouth. Gasping for breath, his mouth left hers to trail kisses along her jawline. She shivered when he reached her neck, her had falling back to allow him access. He opened his mouth to taste the slight saltiness of her skin. He nibbled a path down her neck until her collar stopped him. When he lifted a hand to move it aside, she dragged him back to her lips.

This time, she was the aggressor, demanding entrance. Shifting restlessly against him, she stood on her toes to kiss his temple. Her breath was hot on his skin as her tongue followed the curve of his ear. Knees so weak he almost couldn't stand, he placed a palm against the wall on either side of her head, bracing himself against the sudden dizziness. Bolder now, she left his ear to kiss the hollow of his throat, then lower, her mouth open on the skin exposed by the vee of his shirt.

"Jesus,' he whispered, and she chuckled softly.

Her hand moved to the button of his shirt; he knew if she opened it he was lost. He stopped her, holding her face in his hands and bending to kiss her again. She melted into him. His hands slid from her face to her shoulders and down her back. Hands shaking, he jerked her shirt of the waistband of her pants. They sighed into each others mouths as his hands found the heat of her bare back. Now it was her knees that grew week and he felt her slump against the wall. Without breaking their kiss, he turned them so that it was his back against the wall and she leaned into him.

Her small hands slid his suspenders of his shoulders before returning to the buttons of his shirt. She conquered the first one, but struggled with the next, until her finally pulled it off for her. Head swimming, he claimed her mouth again. Her palms flattened on his chest, moving urgently oer his shoulders and down his arms. Returning his attention to her neck, he earned a breathy little sigh for his efforts. He nuzzled her, breathing her scent, but couldn't stay away from her mouth too long. Underneath her shirt his hands continued to roam her back, pulling her even closer.

The sound of a door slamming broke their kiss, and the voices of two younger newsies filled the bunkroom. Panting, he rested his forehead against hers. Her eyes were a cloudy shade of green he'd never seen before. A pulse beat at the base of her throat and Spot had to bite his tongue to keep from tasting it.

Slowly, he came back to his senses, his breathing gradually returning to normal.

"We should stop." The roughness of his voice sounded odd to him.

Unable to speak she nodded. Her tongue came out to wet her lips and he closed his eyes, groaning.

"Don't do that," he choked, and she froze, eyes wide.

"Sorry," she whispered, burying her face in his chest.

A shout from downstairs reminded them where they were. He knew he should let go of Pocket, but he couldn't make his hands move. They remained stubbornly glued to her soft skin. Minutes passed as they stood there, eyes closed. Finally someone from downstairs called up to Spot.

"Hey Conlon! We'se getting dinnah. You comin?"

'Yeah" he yelled back, wondering if they could her the thickness in his voice. "Gimme a minute."

He looked down at Pocket, not sure what to say. Her face was still hidden and he wondered what she was thinking.

"We better go," he murmured. "Ya need ta eat before ya go back to Manhattan." Again, she nodded, but her grip on his upper arms tightened.

"Hey," he said, and she looked up. "Ya alright?"

Another nod. He worried about her silence. Sighing, she let go of him, stepping back. Reluctantly he released her. As soon as his hands left her waist he was desperate to touch her skin again. Luckily she took another step back. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked around for his shirt.

Pocket was quiet after that, and didn't eat much of her bread, instead bringing it back to the lodging house when she went to wake Slips. Spot walked the two of them as far as the bridge, motioning for the little spy to stay a ways in front of them. As they walked, he sneaked glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She still hadn't said much, just stared at the ground, and he was scared she was regretting their kiss. Biting back a groan of frustration, the Brooklynite mentally kicked himself for getting carried away. Now she was going to think he saw her as little more than a toy, when really she was the most important thing in his life.

The thought hit him like a ton of bricks and he stopped walking, mouth hanging open. Pocket turned toward him, a questioning look on her face.

"What is it?"

"Nothin," he told her, jogging to catch up. "Just remembered something is all."

At the edge of the bridge, he gave her a quick hug. Mindful of Slips presence, he lightly kissed her cheek and whispered. "Remember, ya promised ta stay outta trouble."

Pocket smiled for the first time that evening. "Me?" she replied innocently. "Trouble?"

He grinned, nodded his goodbye to Slips, and watched the two of them head across the bridge.

When they were halfway across, he whistled a quick, sharp note. Three huge boys separated themselves from the shadows and wordlessly followed the pair towards Manhattan, just like they did every time.

The King of Brooklyn nodded in satisfaction.


	6. Now do ya get it?

Slips and Pocket had taken the long walk from Brooklyn to Manhattan together many times, but this time she wasn't very good company. Her usual quick smile and ready laugh were noticeably absent that night, and Slips wasn't sure if it was worry over the strike or something else that was making her so quiet.

They split up a couple of blocks from the lodging house. Slips curled up on a bench and was soon asleep. Pocket continued on her way, her mind full of Spot.

She was so lost in her thoughts she didn't hear the voices until they were almost on top of her. Quickly, she ducked into an alley, listening carefully. Her shoulder slumped with relief when Jack and David ambled past. Silently she slipped out of the alley and followed behind them. She trailed them noiselessly for almost a block before she finally spoke up.

"Nice night for a stroll."

David jumped; Jack whirled around fist raised.

"Jesus, Pocket," Jack relaxed when he saw her. "Ya gotta stop sneakin up on me like that."

"You should pay more attention," she said, falling into step beside him.

"Didn't expect ta see ya back tanight," he remarked. "Thought you was stayin in Brooklyn."

"Heard about Crutchy," she said. "So ya didn't get him out?"

Jack shook his head. "Couldn't," he said regretfully. "The Delancey's soaked him pretty bad and he ain't walkin right."

Pocket's mouth tightened. "Just wait til I see them Delancey's again . . ." she muttered angrily.

"How did you know about Crutchy?" David asked her.

Jack and Pocket shared a look.

"Boidies," they answered in unison.

"Boidies?" he repeated, confused. "Wait, you mean . . . spies?"

Jack nodded. "Sorta."

"You've got spies?" David asked incredulously.

"Not me," Pocket chuckled. "Try to keep up."

"Brooklyn's got boidies all ovah New York," Jack explained. He nudged Pocket. "Shoulda known he woulda already found out."

"So what's the plan for tomorrow, Cowboy?" she asked him.

"Not sure," he shrugged. "Guess we'se gonna go to the distribution center."

"Ya gonna try talkin ta Pulitzer again?"

"Maybe."

"Well ya gotta do something," she said sternly. "Otherwise we'se just a bunch of kids sittin around."

"I know, I know. I'll think of something," Jack promised.

She nudged David. "How 'bout you, Mouth. Got any big ideas?"

Shaking his head, David answered. "Not really. We sort of thought we'd have more support by now. But I guess Spot Conlon has better things to do."

Pocket raised her eyebrows at his snide tone. "Spot didn't start the strike," she said flatly. "You did. Now ya hafta finish it, with or with out his help."

Seeing that his friend had made her angry, Jack changed the subject. "It's gettin late," he told them, yawning. "I'se gonna take a walk and go ta sleep."

"See ya in the morning," he clapped David on the shoulder before turning to Pocket. "Ya goin back to the Lodging House?" he asked her.

"In a minute. Gonna stay and talk to Dave for a bit."

Jack smirked at David, who had already started walking away and was now blushing slightly. The Manhattan leader shook hands with Pocket, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"Go easy on him." She rolled her eyes.

After Jack had gone, Pocket took a seat on the steps of a nearby apartment building. David watched nervously as she took out a cigarette and took a few leisurely puffs. He wished he was as confident and charming as Jack. He didn't have much experience with girls, and despite all the warnings, he wanted her to like him. He tried to think of something witty to say to break the silence, but he was pretty sure she was mad at him so he kept his mouth shut. After a while, she looked over at him.

"Ya don't like Spot." It was more of a statement than a question.

"I never said –" he started to protest but she leveled her green eyes on him, daring him to deny it. "Alright," he sighed. "I don't."

She studied him intently. "Cuz he won't join the strike, or cuz you'se afraid of him?" she asked.

"I'm not afraid of him!" he said hastily.

Pocket snorted. "Ya should be." She took another drag of her cigarette. "So you're mad that he said no, then."

"Well, yeah," David said. "All the other newsies are waiting to see what Spot does. Now that he said no, so will everyone else."

"Do you wanna know _why_ he said no?" she asked.

"I know why," he answered. "He doesn't think we can win."

"True," she agreed. "That's a pretty good reason."

David didn't answer, couldn't think of anything to say.

"Look, Dave," she said patiently. "There's more at stake than ya know here. This isn't a game. Spot has to look out for his boys. He has to make sure they have money for food and a place ta sleep, an he has to keep 'em outta trouble. They depend on him."

David shook his head. "We have to worry about the same things here, what's the difference."

"The difference," she informed him, " is that if this don't work, if we lose, the worst that will happen is you'se all have to deal with the new prices. In a few weeks everything'll go back to normal."

She stood up and walked over to him, staring him in the eye. "If Brooklyn joins the strike," she told him, " an we lose, if Spot loses . . . Brooklyn will fall apart."

David gave a disbelieving snort. "I think you might be "improving the truth" a little," he said.

"No," she insisted, "I'm not. Look, Brooklyn ain't like Manhattan. It's dirty, its dangerous. There's about thirty newsies here, Spot's got over a hundred." She paused to let that sink in. " It ain't easy keeping that many boys in line. An the reason Spot can do that is because of his reputation. Nobody argues with him. An' if some dumbass does decide to go against Spot, believe me, they don't do it twice. If Brooklyn joins the strike and don't come out on top, that makes him look weak."

"So he doesn't want to help us because losing won't be good for his ego?" David asked rudely.

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

"Spot was twelve years old when he took over Brooklyn. The old leader, Roller, got knocked out in a bar fight and never woke up. After that, things were real bad. Everybody was tryin ta get a piece of Brooklyn. Spot fought for six months ta get control. Six months of sneakin, and spyin and lookin over his shoulder till he finally beat everybody out. Then for a year after that he had to deal with the other boroughs causin problems. Now its been almost three years an nobody messes with Brooklyn."

She went back over to the stoop and sat down, staring up at the sky for a minute.

"If he helps us an we still lose, people will start thinking he's weak. He'll have to fight for Brooklyn all over again."

They sat in silence while David mulled over what she'd said. After a while, she nudged his arm.

"Now do ya get it?" she asked him.


	7. Jackyboys in trouble

Slips was running.

Again.

Back to Brooklyn.

He darted around corners, dodging merchants and wagons as they began setting up for the day. The sounds of the waking city faded into the background, all he could hear was the steady pounding of his own feet.

He ran full out, legs pumping, lungs straining. As he neared the bridge, he pushed himself harder. His mission was urgent, but at the same time the news he carried weighed him down. In all of his short life he had never wanted to run and hide more than he did at that moment. He made himself cross in to Brooklyn, dreading what would happen when he reached his destination. This time he knew he was in trouble.

Being one of Spot Conlon's "boidies" had its highs and lows, but this was the part of his job that he really hated. The Brooklyn leader had a tendency to "shoot the messenger". Slips had the dubious privilege of bringing information he new would send his boss into a fury.

The sun had barely come up, so most of the newsies were still inside the barracks. A couple of early risers lounged on the steps smoking, and they caught sight of Slips as he passed the docks. They both jumped up and ran inside to alert Spot. Slips groaned to himself, he would have preferred to come in quietly and maybe give his report in private. Now the whole of the lodging house would be waiting.

He collapsed just inside the door, gasping for air. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spot coming down the stairs, face already set in that unnerving, expressionless mask. The newsies parted to make way for him as he crossed the room. Only the tap of his cane against the wooden floor and the harsh rasp of Slips breathing broke the heavy silence.

Booted feet came to stop in front of the young boy, and he struggled to his feet, but he couldn't make himself look up. He kept his head bowed, desperately searching for the right words.

"Well?" Spot snapped impatiently. "What is it?"

"Trap." Still out of breath, the little spy could barely get the words out. "At the distribution office . . . . . . Crips."

That was enough for Spot. He beat his cane twice on the floor to call attention, despite the fact that every eye in the room was already fixed on him.

"Get ready boys," he ordered. "We'se goin ta Manhattan."

The newsies scattered, rushing for shoes, hats, and most importantly, slingshots. Fiver stepped up, offering Slips a cup of dirty water, which he gulped gratefully.

"Think we'll get there in time?" the older boy asked. Spot frowned.

"We should," he said. "Bell won't ring for a while yet. Jack should be able to hold 'em off till we get there." He looked down at his spy.

"What's Cowboy plannin' ta do?"

Slips cringed at the question. For a minute it had looked like he'd get away without having to tell this part. Spot noticed his reaction and tensed in fury, grabbing the little boy by the shoulders.

"What?" he asked, his low and threatening.

"H- He . . . Jack . . ." Slips stuttered fearfully. Spot's fingers tightened their grip.

"He don't know."

The words came in a rush, and Slips tried to back away, but he wasn't able to break free. Shaking him slightly, the Brooklyn leader bent down so their noses were nearly touching. His icy blue eyes bore into the younger boys, demanding an explanation.

"Ya didn't tell him?" Once again, his voice was so cold that Fiver and a couple of the other boys backed away.

Slips shook his head miserably. "I tried to warn them, honest." He tried to explain. "But ya said I weren't 'sposed ta talk ta nobody but Cowboy or Pocket, an' I couldn't find neither of 'em. I looked in all the usual places, but they weren't around, so I figured I'd bettah just hurry an come tell you.

Spot eased his grip a little, but didn't let go.

"Let me get this straight," he said softly. "Jack and his boys are about ta walk into a buncha Crips- _Pocket_ is about ta walk into a buncha Crips, . . . . and they have no idea?"

Slips nodded helplessly as Spot's hand went to his cane. The little boy braced himself for a punishing strike but Spot stopped himself. Shoving Slips aside, he headed for the door.

"I'll deal with you later," he promised, then shouted, "Let's go! Jacky-boy's got hisself inta some trouble."

Too smart to question him, the newsies followed him quickly out onto the street. Slips went too, trying to stay in the back, but when Spot turned to make sure everyone was coming he noticed the boy immediately.

"I told you I'll deal with you later," he said.

It took every ounce of courage Slips had not to run back inside. But Pocket was his friend, one of the few real friends in his lonely life, and more than anything he felt guilty that he hadn't been able to warn her.

"Please," he squeaked, mightily fighting back tears. "Please let me go." Spot started to shake his head, but Slips rushed on. "I wanna go. Pocket might need me."

It was the mention of her name that changed Spot's mind. A strange look crossed his face before he nodded curtly and turned to lead his men. As they crossed the bridge, Slips kept to the rear of the group until Spot called him forward again. He jogged to the front where the leader was speaking quietly with a couple of his most trusted newsies. They all looked anxiously at Slips when he caught up with them.

"Tell us what you know," Spot demanded.

"Foist thing this morning," Slips began, "I headed over to the lodgin house but no one was up yet so I went on ahead to the distribution office to look around. That fat guy, Weasel, was standin by the gate with a coupla Crips. I couldn't hear what they was sayin, but then da biggest guy waved his hand and a whole bunch more guys came over. He let 'em in, but he locked the gate back up before I could get inside. I waited a while, den I heard voices so I hid behind some boxes. Dem Delancey bruddas walked by, and they was laughin, sayin that 'Cowboy an' his little friends don't know what they got comin to 'em.'"

Here the little boy stopped for a breath, looking anxiously from Spot to the others. Again, he tried to explain himself.

"I tried to find 'em. Really I did." Fiver put a hand on his arm.

"We know, Slips," he said. "Keep goin. Tell us the rest."

"That's about it," the little boy told them. " I went straight to the lodgin house but they said they hadn't seen Jack. I asked for Pocket, but they said she ain't been there all night." Spot's mouth tightened at this information and the other boys exchanged nervous glances.

"I checked at Medda's, and at the diner, and the market, but I couldn't find either of 'em nowhere. So I decided I better just come back here and you would know what to do."

Slips looked fearfully up at his leader, who was staring sightlessly ahead, deep in thought. Shaking his head, he looked down at his "boidie".

"Ya did ya best," he said, surprising not just Slips but the other boys as well when he patted the little boy on the shoulder. "Don't worry," he leaned down to whisper so no one else could hear. "I ain't gonna let nothing happen to her."

Slips gave a weak smile of gratitude. "Promise?" he asked.

Spot nodded. Reassured, Slips jogged off to resume his place in the back, leaving Spot to hope that he would reach Manhattan in time to keep his promise.

With each step closer, the look on Spot's face grew darker. His mind was a whirl of fears for Pocket. He cursed himself for not making her stay with him in Brooklyn, though he knew he couldn't have kept her from going. When he'd returned to the barracks last night he'd gone straight up to the loft, ignoring the card and dice games in the bunkroom. He'd spent the night staring at his ceiling, reliving the events of the afternoon. His mood alternated between pleasure that he'd finally kissed Pocket, and confusion about what exactly that meant. The strike had occupied very little of his thoughts other than Pocket's role in it.

Unable to stand the idea of her putting herself into danger, he had resolved to try to change her mind. After he finished selling the next day he would go over to Manhattan and convince her to come back to Brooklyn. If that didn't work, and he was pretty sure it wouldn't, he would talk to Jack about keeping her safe. That morning, Spot had risen comforted by the thought that at least he had a plan.

Then Slips had shown up, and Spot Conlon was on his way to Manhattan sooner than he'd expected.


	8. Nevah Feah!

Pocket and David had talked far into the night, but she had refused his offer to come inside and sleep on the sofa. She knew she wouldn't be comfortable in the Jacobs' apartment. When she reached the lodging house she realized there was no way for her to go in and get to bed without waking the other newsies. Rather than face their questions about Crutchy, she'd curled up in the doorway of a nearby shop. Exhausted by the events of the day, she closed her eyes and drifted into dreams of blue-grey eyes and strong hands.

Jack had once again slept on the Jacobs fire escape; David roused him and they headed back to the house. They came across Pocket on the way; after stopping for coffee the three of them discussed their next course of action. David tried to convince the other two that they couldn't start any more fights. If they wanted to be taken seriously, he argued, they had to act more civilized. Pocket laughed out loud at the thought of a "civilized" Blink and Mush. Jack looked doubtful, but reluctantly agreed with David.

The newsies were disappointed to see them return without Crutchy, but seemed more determined than ever to go on with the strike. Outside the distribution office they faced the gates, waiting. When the doors opened, the scabs came walking out and Pocket briefly wondered why they didn't look scared. The newsies waited for Jack to tell them what to do, David cautioned them once more to remain calm. The tension mounted, and finally, Jack snapped.

"Let's soak 'em for Crutchy!"

With a roar, the newsies surged forward, chasing the scabbers back into the yard. Racetrack taunted them all the way back to the door, where they pounded and shouted to be let in. Pocket headed after him, grinning.

The smirk fell from Race's face the second the door opened. "J-Jack. . ." he stammered, looking wildly back towards his friends. "Jack it's a trap. It's the Crips!"

He ran as the doors opened wide to reveal a group of burly men, all grinning wickedly. Pockets eyes took stock of the men, then shifted back to the gates, her hear sinking as she watched them close, a mounted officer keeping people away. In the back of her mind, she remembered Spot's question of the day before. "_How do I know you got what it takes to win?"_

She smiled softly to herself as she faced off against a man twice her size.

"Iguess we'se about ta find out_,"_ she murmured, and clenched her fists.

When they reached the distribution center, a groan rumbled throughout the Brooklyn newsies who saw that the gates were closed, with the Manhattaners trapped inside. Spot strained his eyes trying to see Pocket but there was just too many people. Struggling to push aside his fear, he turned to his men.

"I want da best shooters with me," he ordered in a no-nonsense tone. "The rest of ya wait here until I open the gate."

Slips stepped forward, clutching his slingshot. After a moment's hesitation, he received a nod from his leader and crept around the side to find another way in.

Inside the yard, Manhattan was surrounded. Jack was trapped in a circle of Crips, the rest of the boys held back by the beefy men. He danced away from the swinging chain, falling back against the steps. Pocket started toward him, but found her arms restrained by a foul smelling oaf. She watched helplessly, waiting for the blow to fall.

A sudden banging distracted the crowd as one after another, boys hopped onto the ledge above. Pocket knew without looking that he had come, even before she heard his voice.

"Nevah Feah, Brooklyn is heah!"

"Brooklyn!"

The shout went up among the besieged Manhattan newsies. The Crips looked up just in time to see Spot and his boys send a hailstorm of marbles and pebbles down on their heads.

And then it began.

Spot scored a hit, giving Jack an opening to get away. Pocket saw Slips look around, find her, and take aim. _Ping!_ Her arms were suddenly freed as the man holding her collapsed. Immediately, she leapt into the fray, launching herself at Oscar Delancey. Catching him by surprise, she knocked him to the ground. He tried to rise, but she pinned him with her knees and glared down at him. Intent on getting revenge for Crutchy, she didn't see the man behind her.

He caught her raised fist in his meaty hand, yanking her up. Her cap fell off, releasing her dark curls. Ugly face splitting into an evil grin, the thug grabbed a handful of hair and shoved her to the ground. She brought her knees up just in time to block a hard kick to the ribs. Before she could move away, he abruptly pitched forward, she had to scramble to the side to avoid being pinned under his weight.

Taking the hand he held out to her, she allowed herself to be pulled upright by her rescuer.

"You're late," she chided.

Spot smirked. "Looks like I'm just in time."

She grinned and bent to retrieve her fallen hat. Long hair once again tucked securely away, she darted off and was soon lost in the melee. Spot chuckled to himself, then turned to shake hands with Jack.

After fighting his way through the courtyard, Spot opened the gates to the rest of his boys. His battle cry of "Brooklyn" echoed over the din. Wielding his cane with authority he led his men into the courtyard. As he fought he kept an eye out for Pocket. He caught brief glimpses of her, cheerfully tormenting the outnumbered Crips.

She waved merrily as she ran past, a greasy thug in hot pursuit.

"I thought I told you to stay out of trouble," Spot shouted.

"What trouble?" she laughed, reaching out to snatch the metal pipe away from her pursuer.

"Don't see no trouble here," she called to him, blithely bonking the man in the head with his own weapon.

When he fell to the ground, she looked down at the pipe in her hand and nodded appreciatively. She gave Spot a cheeky salute and bounded off, gleefully brandishing her newly acquired weapon.

Before long it became obvious that the newsies had won the battle. Spot stood on the platform with Jack and the others, slapping each other on the back and cheering. They mugged happily for the camera, arms around each others shoulders. Down below, Pocket and Slips joined the younger newsies in a jaunty little victory dance.

Spot hopped down and hurried over to her. Laughing breathlessly, she threw herself into his arms. He picked her up and twirled her around, drinking in the sight of her of her bright eyes and flushed cheeks. When he finally set her down he pulled her tightly against him. Suddenly serious, she curled into his embrace, resting her head on shoulder.

"Hey Brooklyn," she whispered into his neck, "Knew ya'd come."

He didn't answer, just rested his chin atop her head. She raised up to look at him, and they stared at each other. Relief flooded him as he held her, thankful that he had reached her in time. His face tightened as he thought of what could have happened if he hadn't been there.

Pocket saw the change in his expression and knew the direction of his thoughts. Gently she placed a soothing hand on his cheek. If she let him, she knew he would beat himself up, focusing on the danger she had been in.

When she had realized that she and her friends had walked into a trap she had felt a sharp flash of fear. But somehow she had known that he'd show up. In the five years that they'd been friends, Spot Conlon had never once not been there when she needed him.

She smiled into his familiar blue eyes, warmed by the strength of his arms around her. Her heart skipped when he turned his head slightly to press a soft kiss to her palm. A soft sigh escaped her as he leanded forward, resting his forehead against hers. She opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head, not needing the words.

"If you're done playin' kissy-face, Pocket," Racetrack's sly voice cut into their moment, "We've got some celebratin to do."

Pocket blushed at Race's knowing look, pulling away from Spot. He let her go but kept a hand on her back. Avoiding Jacks teasing grin he faked annoyance.

"I was celebratin' just fine until you two showed up," he grumbled.

Pocket snorted in amusement. Rolling her eyes, she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the gate. Cocky grin firmly in place, Spot ignored the good natured jabs of his friends and happily followed her into the street.


	9. Discussion

After a long lunch at Tibby's, the celebration moved over to the Manhattan Lodging House. Spot lounged comfortably on the battered sofa, graciously accepting the many thanks and congratulations from Jack's newsies. Pocket drifted from group to group, playing cards with the older boys, marbles with the young ones. Everyone was excited and eager to tell and retell their part in the fight. Two sets of blue eyes followed her as she made her way around the room. Every so often she would catch Spot looking and send him a quick, private smile. She didn't seem to notice David watching her, but Spot didn't miss a thing. Remembering what Fiver had told him about the rookie newsie's interest, Spot made a mental not to pull the boy aside later for a "discussion".

Later that afternoon, the Brooklyners realized they'd better leave soon if they wanted to make it home by dark. Pocket hugged Slips and shook hands with a few of the other boys before turning nervously to Spot. Still resting comfortably on the sofa, the Brooklyn leader gave her a small smile. He waved his cane casually towards his men.

"I'll be staying in Manhattan tonight," he announced, earning a broad grin from Pocket. "Fiver, you keep an eye on things, I'll be back in the morning."

Fiver nodded in agreement, herding the Brooklynites out of the lodging house. Once they had gone, Mush decided he was hungry, so they all headed out, going their separate ways in search of dinner.

Pocket and Spot made it back first, relaxing on the sidewalk, they shared a cigarette and waited for the others. Racetrack was the last to arrive, but he didn't come empty handed. Somehow the crafty Italian had managed to come up with a couple of bottles of whiskey. Blink thought this was a fine idea and dashed off down the street, returning a short time later with his own offerings.

They waited impatiently for the youngest newsies to go to bed before they began celebrating in earnest. It didn't take long for the boys to grow rowdy, singing loudly and dancing drunkenly around the room. Spot, Jack, and Racetrack drank steadily as they sat at the card table, Pocket matching them drink for drink until she finally got bored of playing and wandered outside.

Having only tried alcohol once before, David stopped after one drink and soon tired of watching his friends get more and more boisterous. When Pocket left, he waited a minute before following her outside.

He found her relaxed on the lodging house steps, lazily smoking a cigarette. She nodded a greeting when he joined her on the stoop. They sat in companionable silence, staring up at the sky.

"Turned out alright today," she commented, remarkably lucid considering how much David had seen her drink.

She looked so pretty in the moonlight, hat off, dark hair falling halfway down her back. David had found her intriguing before, but today he had seen her fight like a man and face down brutes double her size. Rather than be repelled by this side of her, he was now more fascinated than ever. He wished he was brave enough to tell her how amazing she was, but instead he settled for talk of the days happenings.

"Brooklyn showed up just in time," he said.

She grinned. "Yeah, well, Spot likes to make an entrance."

"I still can't figure out how he knew, though," David mused thoughtfully. She grinned again, but said nothing.

"So, how did Spot find out when none of us even knew?" he asked her.

"Well, Dave," she answered, "I couldn't say. Guess you'll have to ask him yourself."

"Ask who what?"

They both turned to see Spot standing in the doorway, Jack just behind him. Ever aware of Pocket's movements, Spot had seen her head outside. When he looked up a few minutes later to see that David was gone too, he threw down his cards in the middle of a hand. The look on his face silenced Racetrack's complaints as Spot grabbed his cane and stalked to the door. Mindful of his friend's temper, Jack quickly followed.

He laughed quietly to himself as he watched Spot lower himself onto the step behind Pocket. He pulled her back into the vee of his legs, narrowed eyes on David as he staked his claim. Pocket rolled her eyes at the possessive display but leaned back against him, hands resting lightly on his thighs.

Swallowing nervously, David hastily scooted away from them, keeping a wary eye on Spot. The other boy smile triumphantly. Jack shared an amused glance with Pocket as he shuffled forward to sit beside them.

"What was Davey here asking about?" Jack asked.

Pocket looked pointedly at the curly haired boy, indicating that he should answer. Shifting uncomfortably David repeated his earlier question.

"I just wanted to know how you found out, Spot," he said. "You showed up at the distribution office just in time. How did you know we needed help?"

"Been wonderin that myself, Spot," Jack added. The Brooklyn leader grinned smugly and shook his head.

"Already told ya Cowboy," he teased. "I hear things. From the little boidies."

Jack groaned and pushed him for a better answer. Having heard the story earlier from a very apologetic Slips, Pocket only chuckled as Spot refused to say more.

"Well, however ya knew," Jack finally said, "I'm glad ya did. Didn't thank ya before, but I'm grateful ya decided to help out."

Spot shrugged, waving Jack's thanks away. "Well, I was in the area," he joked. "Didn't have nothing better ta do today."

Jack laughed and gave his friend a good natured shove.

"I'd be offended," he said, "but the whiskey won't let me."

David spoke up again. "So does this mean you've changed your mind about the strike?"

A heavy silence followed his question. Jack shot David a warning look then turned to Spot, fighting to hide his anxiety. Pocket, too, gave David an odd look before her face settled into a carefully blank expression, not unlike the cold mask that Spot often wore. The Brooklyn leader softly stroked her shoulder, his pale eyes focused somewhere across the street. It seemed to David that the tension grew with every second that Spot didn't answer. They all felt it, steadily stretching on, until David thought they would all explode.

"I ain't changed my mind," Spot finally answered, his words breaking the thick tension but replacing it with a suffocating sense of disappointment. David sighed heavily, the sound almost drowning out Spot's next quietly spoken word.

"Yet."

Pocket's head jerked up, she twisted to face him, her eyes searching his face. Spot gave her shoulder a brief squeeze, but directed his next words at David.

"I still ain't sure you boys are doin' the right thing," he said. "Today just proves it. You'se all woulda been in trouble if Brooklyn hadn't stepped in."

Jack and Pocket both opened their mouths but Spot held up a hand to silence them.

"I ain't gonna argue about what woulda happened," he told Jack, then looked down at Pocket, "and I ain't sayin ya ain't tough." Here he looked at David, who most needed to hear what he had to say.

"I came to Manhattan today cuz I knew ya was headin into a trap. That's all."

He turned his eerie gaze from David to stare down at Pocket, and some sort of wordless communication passed between them.

"Brooklyn and Manhattan have been tight since before Brooklyn was mine," he continued. "And since I took ovah, ya know you'se can always count on us, Jack." Jack nodded

"None of me boys wanna see anythin' happen to ya, any of ya." Spot stopped, moving his hand to toy with the soft curls that spilled over Pocket's shoulder.

"But this is different Jacky-boy," he said softly. "Think about what you'se really askin' of me."

David looked on as the two leaders stared at each other. Spot spoke again, his voice calm and steady.

"I'll think on it some more. I'se stayin' here tonight. In the mornin', we'll talk again, just you an' me Cowboy. Then I'll go back to Brooklyn and talk this ovah with me boys. I ain't makin' this decision for 'em."

Jack's face broke into a relieved grin. Spitting his hand, he held it out to Spot, who did the same and shook it.

Pocket stretched and pulled out another cigarette. She lit it and took a puff before handing it to Spot.

I don't know about you boys," she said sleepily, "but I'se beat. What say we leave all this serious shit for tamarra so we can all get some sleep."

The three of them agreed, suddenly noticing the lateness of the hour and the exhaustion creeping in. Jack clapped David on the back and stood.

'I'm goin in'," he said. "Pocket, gotta minute?"

She stood as well, ready to head inside.

"Hey."

They both turned at the door when Spot called them.

"I ain't promisin' nothin'," he cautioned them. "Ain't doin nothing unless all of me boys agree. But even then, the final word is still mine."

Jack looked like he wanted to say something, but Pocket elbowed him in the side and he thought better of it. He gave a quick wave to David before offering an arm to Pocket in a grand gesture. She linked arms with him, mimicking the sophisticated upper class ladies. With a nod to Spot, she followed Jack inside, calling over her shoulder as the door closed behind her.

"Night Mouth."

David stood to leave as well, but Spot stopped him.

"Wait a minute, fella."

Reluctantly, he sank back down onto the step. The smaller boy took another drag of his cigarette, watching David fidget nervously. Spot hadn't gotten the reputation of the most feared newsie in New York for nothing. He knew that sometimes, silence could be twice as intimidating as speech and he let that silence drag on. David tried to hide his fear, but Spot easily picked up the familiar signs. As David tapped his fingers and shifted his feet, the other newies sat calmly smoking. When he felt the anticipation had built enough to make his point, he finally leaned closer.

"It's obvious you'se a smart guy, David."

Spot had to tilt his head a little to meet David's eye, but his smaller stature did nothing to lessen the impact of his steely glare.

"So I figure I ain't gonna have to say this more than once." He paused, lightly fingering the head of his cane. "Don't go gettin' ideas about Pocket."

David gulped, he should have known this was coming.

"If I even hear about ya lookin' at her for a second too long, I'm comin' afta ya."

Spot looked like he was about to elaborate on his threat, but Pocket stuck her head out the door.

"Spot, ya comin'?" she asked, then noticed David. Eyeing them suspiciously, she stepped outside.

"Did I miss somethin'?"

Spot rose and draped an arm around her. "Nah, ya didn't miss nothin," he assured her. "Me and Dave here was just havin' a little discussion."

She raised an eyebrow. "Did ya discuss anythin' I should know about?"

Spot shook his head. "Nothin' important. Right, Davey?" Spot said with a warning look.

David hastily shook his head. "No, nothing important."

Pocket looked doubtful, but obviously felt it wiser to leave the situation alone. "Well then, if you're done 'discussin'" she mocked, "Will ya get your ass in here? Jack wants to talk to ya, and I'm ready for bed."

"Sure thing. Here I come," Spot told her. He shot one last look at David before going in. "So we understand each otha, Mouth?"

David nodded weakly. With a mocking tip of his hat and a knowing smirk, the King of Brooklyn went inside.


	10. I knew ya'd come

Jack and Racetrack were the only ones still awake when Pocket and Spot entered the lodging house. All the other boys had made their way upstairs, except for Mush, who was sprawled out on the sofa clutching an empty bottle. Pocket kicked his foot, causing him to jolt awake. He cringed when the bottle hit the floor. Rubbing his face tiredly, he stumbled up the stairs.

Racetrack stood, patting his pockets to make sure he had all his poker winnings.

"I see you have decided to make use of our fine establishment this evening," he drawled, doffing his cap at Spot. "We hopes that sir will find everything to his liking," he teased with a pointed look at Pocket.

She snorted and cuffed him on the back of the head. "Quit yappin' and get yer ass upstairs," she told him. "Ya need your beauty rest." Grinning drunkenly, the two draped their arms each other and wobbled up the stairs.

Spot and Jack chuckled as they watched Pocket slide a hand into Race's vest and come out with a cigar. She winked over her shoulder and tossed the cigar to Jack, who caught it deftly with one hand. This was a prank they played often. Jack would return the cigar in the morning when Race looked for it, saying he had found it in the common room. Race never caught on, always muttering about "misplacing" his belongings, and the pranksters never got tired of the joke.

The two leaders relaxed together on the sofa. A muffled thud and smothered laughter drifted down from upstairs as Race and Pocket shoved each other around. When all was quiet, Spot turned expectantly to Jack.

"Okay, Cowboy," he said. "What's on ya mind?"

Pocket lay in her bunk listening to the snores of her friends all around her. Unable to sleep, her mind replayed the day's events over and over. Pictures of Spot stood out sharpest in her thoughts. Spot, aiming his slingshot. Spot leading his men through the gates- hat off, light brown hair hanging in his eyes. She remembered the way his shirt had clung to his sweaty frame, outlining the lean muscles of his chest and arms. Most of the Brooklyn newsies were big, strong, and she was used to seeing them lounging shirtless around the docks. None of them made her breathless like the sight of Spot's small, wiry build. Maybe because she had felt his strength when he held her, maybe because she had seen him outfight men much bigger than him, maybe because she knew that his strength was more than just physical.

She rolled over and buried her hot face in the pillow, overwhelmed by the feelings those images aroused. She closed her eyes, sighing with the rush of emotions that was getting harder to ignore. She struggled to stay awake, wanting to wait up for him, but sleep soon claimed her.

Spot and Jack didn't talk for long. Jack asked again how Spot had known about the trap, and Spot briefly explained what Slips had overheard, how the little spy had finally run back to Brooklyn after being unable to warn Jack and Pocket. Cowboy tried to bring up the strike, but his Brooklynite friend only repeated what he had said earlier, that he would go back across the bridge to discuss things with his boys.

Frustrated, but knowing that he wouldn't get much further tonight, Jack said goodnight, heading outside for a walk. Fully aware of exactly where that "walk" would take his friend, Spot considered teasing, but was too eager to get back to Pocket to bother.

There was just enough moonlight shining through the windows for him to make his way to her bunk. She lay curled on her side; he took a quiet moment to simply admire her beauty. Minutes passed, punctuated by the snuffles and snores of the sleeping newsies, as he watched the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Across the room, Blink muttered in his sleep, pulling Spot out of his daze.

Eyes still on Pocket, he slipped his shirt off and laid it on the end of the bunk, slipping his key into the pocket. He leaned his cane against the wall in easy reach and sat down on the bed to take off his boots. The shift of the mattress woke Pocket, and she rolled onto her back.

"Hey," she mumbled sleepily.

"Hey," he whispered back. "Sorry I woke ya. Go back to sleep."

He leaned over to put his money in his boot for safekeeping, shivering when she laid a hand on his bare back. He shuffled barefoot into the washroom. She was waiting when he returned, green eyes dark and gleaming as she watched him. He laid down gently beside her, she moved to snuggle up to him, his arm automatically going around her, cradling her against his chest the way they had lain together countless times. His free hand drifted down her back to rest on her thigh where it draped across his legs. Chuckling softly, he plucked at the rough fabric of her pants.

"Whatcha still got all yer clothes on for?" he asked, curious because she normally slept in just a shirt.

Poking him lightly in the side, she teased, "Ya want I should take my pants off in here?"

He smiled into the darkness with a surge of pure male jealously. "Better not," he told her cockily, reaching down to tickle the bottoms of her bare feet.

Jerking away, she buried her face into his chest to smother her giggles. A wave of tenderness washed over him as he gathered her close. She propped her chin against her hand so she could look at him.

"Thanks for comin' today," she said.

He reached up to tuck her dark hair behind her ear. "You knew I would," he answered in the soft tone he only used with her.

She nodded, her eyes not leaving his. He pulled her face down to his, watching her eyes close as he found her mouth. The day before their kiss had been intense, shocking them both with its heat. Tonight, the passion took a backseat to comfort, affection, and something deeper that he wasn't ready to name. With his lips and tongue he told her of his worry when he'd learned she was in danger, and she told him without words of her relief when he'd arrived to save the day.

This kiss was brief, lasting mere seconds, but neither of them needed more. She released his mouth to drop quick kisses on his nose and cheeks before once again nuzzling into his neck. She rested a hand on his chest, he stroked her cheek and their eyes fluttered shut as their breathing slowed in time to each other's and they drifted into sleep.


	11. Psssst

A low hissing noise intruded on Pocket's dreams. Grumbling, she threw an arm up over her head, trying to block out the annoyance and savor a few more minutes of sleep. Unfortunately, the noise grew louder and more insistent.

"Pssst." A pause, then again. "Pssst." Then a sharp whisper. "Pocket."

She cracked one eye just enough to make out Racetrack's face in the weak half-light of morning.

"Pocket, wake up," he repeated.

She gave a disgusted snort and burrowed deeper under the blanket, hiding her face in Spot's shoulder. "Jesus, Race," she complained. "It's too early to get up. We ain't gotta sell papes today. Let me sleep!"

The young Italian groaned and reached out to poke her arm. "Pocket, ya gotta get up," he persisted.

"Why?" she huffed.

He rolled his eyes and leaned in closer, poking her some more until she finally opened her eyes to glare at him. When he had her attention, he said, "Thought you an' Spot might wanna get up before da uddas."

Pocket just stared blankly at him. Racetrack sighed back, waiting patiently for her sleep muddled brain to catch up.

"Oh," she murmured when it hit her.

"Oh," Race mimicked sarcastically.

"Yeah, okay," she said. "I'm up." He eyed her dubiously. "I mean it, I'm up," she assured him. "Thanks."

With a crooked grin, the other newsie ambled off towards the stairs.

"Hey," she called softly. "Thanks Race. Give us a bit. If ya wait up, we can go get coffee." He waved over his shoulder.

Pocket reluctantly eased out of bed, careful not to disturb Spot. He stirred slightly as she moved his arms off her, but soon settled back to sleep. She hurried to the washroom for a bath, ducking quickly under the water to scrub her hair. She swore softly at the shock of the icy cold water. _Well I'se awake now,_ she thought. Teeth chattering she rushed to dry off and throw on clean clothes before the other boys started waking up. Most mornings, she waited until they were all dressed and out the door before going to wash. Normally she took advantage of that privacy to tend to personal hygiene, but with Spot there she wanted to get done first. She knew he would rather the newsies didn't find them sharing a bed.

Spot was always careful to keep their closeness a secret. In Brooklyn it was easy, Pocket had been sleeping in the loft for years. When she first started spending her nights there, he had pulled an extra cot in, saying he didn't trust the boys in the main bunkroom. She had long since abandoned the cot for Spot's bed, but nobody else knew that.

Once in a blue moon, Spot stayed over in Manhattan, but he usually slept in one of the extra bunks. She hadn't given it much thought last night when he came to her bed; she had needed his closeness. But she was glad it was Race that had found them rather than the other fellas. She wasn't worried about them teasing her, she could dish out insults with the best of them, but Spot's reputation was important to him. It wouldn't do for people to know the King of Brooklyn had a softer side.

Padding softly back into the bunkroom, she perched lightly on the edge of the bed. Softly rubbing his shoulder she tried to wake him. He didn't move, even when she whispered his name. She tried shaking him gently, but that didn't work either. With a heavy sigh, she finally reached up and flicked his ear with her forefinger.

The Brooklyn leader jolted awake, hand reaching for his cane even before he opened his eyes. He relaxed when he saw her sitting there, and expression of exaggerated innocence on her face.

"What'd ya wanna go an' do that for?" he asked grumpily.

Pocket smirked at him. "I tried shakin' ya but ya wasn't budgin'," she said. "How else was I s'posed to wake ya?"

Spot raised an eyebrow at her. "I can think of much better ways," he murmured silkily, leaning forward to nip at her ear.

She gave him a playful shove, laughing at his pouty look, like a child denied his favorite toy. Before he could protest she stood, rummaging around for her comb.

"Better get up an' get dressed, Spot," she told him. "The oddas are gonna start wakin' up soon."

Running a hand through his hair, he nodded. He let out jaw cracking yawn, then stood, stretching widely. "I'll be out in a minute," he said.

"Yeah, put some hustle in it then," she ordered. "Race is downstairs waitin' to go get coffee."

Pocket was lacing up her boots when Spot returned, freshly shaved and hair slicked back. She watched as he buttoned his shirt and pulled his key over his head, tucking it under his shirt. By the time he got around to pulling his boots on, she was tapping her foot impatiently.

"Alright woman," he groused. "I'm ready. Ya act like ya got somewhere to be."

"Anyone would think _you_ was the goil, ya take so long gettin ready," she teased him, already walking away.

Spot caught up with her at the top of the stairs, snagging her sleeve to pull her against him.

"Hey," he said smugly, dropping a quick kiss on her lips. "Perfection like this takes time."

She rolled her eyes and started down the stairs. "I guess it ain't your fault," she said snootily. "Not every one can be as naturally good lookin' as I am."

Spot grinned as he followed her into the common room.

"Heya Race," he greeted the dark haired newsie who was at that particular moment digging around in the sofa cushions.

"Heya Spot," his friend answered absently, bending to peer underneath the furniture.

Already at the door, Pocket cleared her throat insistently.

"Aw, c'mon Race," Spot said. "Get movin'. Ya know Pocket ain't fit ta be around until she gets some coffee."

"Yeah, yeah, here I come," Race mumbled as he crossed the room, pausing to look under newspapers, patting his pockets distractedly.

"Where tha hell did my cigar get to?"


	12. Relaxin'

One of the best parts of being a newsie was watching New York City wake up. At least Pocket thought so. She loved being out first thing in the morning, in that first half hour when everything still moved slowly. No mistake, Pocket was a New Yorker through and through, she thrived on the frantic pace of the city. But she relished those brief periods of early morning calm that gave her time to fully wake up and face the day.

Pocket, Spot, and Race strolled down the block; Pocket smiled as she listened to Race's running commentary on the people they passed. Every now and then she'd laugh out loud as Spot joined in with his own dry comments. The three of them reached the square just in time to see the nuns arrive with their cart.

Since most of the newsies were still passed out back at the lodging house, only a handful of younger street kids hung around, eagerly munching their hunks of bread. With so few children to feed, they each got a bit extra. When the sisters began to pray, Pocket retreated to a bench to drink her coffee.

Having lived on the streets as long as she could remember, religion had never been a big deal to her. But Spot, being Irish, and Race, Italian, had of course been devout Catholics in their former lives. Gratefully sipping the strong brew, Pocket watched with affection as both the crafty gambler and the fierce leader doffed their caps, bowed their heads and quietly said the rosary.

The two boys finished their Hail Mary's and thanked the sisters then joined Pocket on her bench. They chatted lazily about mundane things. Spot entertained them with his story of his younger boys throwing each other off the docks. Racetrack spoke enthusiastically about a "sure fire winnah" down at the tracks, eagerly describing what he would do with is winnings if he could only get down there to make a bet.

"Better save ya pennies, Race," Pocket cautioned him. "Me birthday's comin' up next week and I 'spect ya to buy me somethin' nice."

"It ain't ya birthday ya big fake," he argued. "You're only just lookin' for presents."

"Is so me birthday next week," she insisted.

"Is not!" he shot back childishly.

"I guess I know when me own birthday is," she told him indignantly.

"Says who?" he challenged. "Ya don't even know for real when ya birthday is. Ya just picked one."

"So what? Everybody gots a birthday and if I don't know what mines is why can't I pick my own?" She shrugged. "Me birthday's next week cuz I say it is," she declared triumphantly. "What's wrong with that?"

Race started to answer her, but Spot cut him off.

"Nothin' wrong with ya pickin' your own birthday," he said dryly. "Only ya had a birthday last month. And a couple months before that, if I rememba."

Pocket didn't bat an eye, just punched him on the shoulder, saying "So now you'se tryin' to get out of buyin' me presents too?"

Racetrack laughed uproariously while Pocket and Spot grinned at each other, enjoying the familiar argument. When she'd first joined the newsies, Pocket had attended a birthday celebration for one of the older boys. Birthdays were a new concept for her, since she'd never known her family. At first she'd been upset that she didn't know her birthday, or even how old she was, until she came up with the brilliant idea of declaring her own day. Since then, she'd happily celebrated her birthday several times a year. The other newsies teased but went along with it, always looking for an excuse to throw a party. Nobody ever had enough money to buy gifts. Only Spot had never missed one yet, always finding her something special.

Pocket lit a cigarette, handing one to each of her companions. She absently rubbed her leg, sore from the couple of kicks the Crip had landed before Spot had knocked him out. Seeing this, Spot frowned but said nothing. Pocket tended to get feisty when she thought he was being over protective. Needless to say, that happened a lot.

Looking around, Racetrack noticed that the square had gotten busier, and realized they'd been gone for a while.

"Guess we bettah head back," he said reluctantly.

"Nah, not yet," Pocket disagreed. "Most of the fellas is just wakin' up. We ain't in no hurry."

"Yeah," Spot seconded. "Jackyboy prob'ly ain't even back from his 'walk' yet. Few more minutes won't hurt. I'm for relaxin' right here for a bit."

With that, Spot stretched out on the seat, resting his head in Pocket's lap. He closed his eyes as she took off his cap to play with his hair.

The three friends stayed for a while longer. Spot dozed peacefully, Pocket and Race sat quietly, lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Race was just pleased to see his two friends finally making progress. Lately he'd wondered if they would ever get it together. A born gambler, Racetrack had a natural talent for reading people. He'd long ago picked up on the undercurrent between them – figured it out way before they even realized it themselves. Over the years he had amused himself watching them try to pretend there was nothing going on. He'd refrained from mentioning it, only teasing her gently every once in a while. As much as the scrappy Italian loved to talk, he also knew that sometimes it was better to keep his big mouth shut.

Now that it seemed they were going to finally acknowledge their feelings, Race couldn't be happier. Pocket and Spot fit perfectly together. They were enough alike to understand each other, but different enough in the ways that mattered. They argued a lot, both of them had strong, stubborn natures that frequently clashed. But they needed each other – she needed him to look out for her when she forgot that she wasn't invincible. He needed her to come home to.

Spot wore the mantle of leadership well, and he genuinely enjoyed it. It was a role that suited him perfectly- he was born to command- but sometimes the weight of that responsibility was exhausting. Sometimes he needed to relax and let his guard down, and Race knew that he could do that with Pocket.

Finally Pocket sighed and shook him awake. "We bettah go," she said softly.

Pocket was distracted the whole way back to the lodging house, walking quietly beside them, studying Spot out of the corner of her eye. When he'd been asleep on her lap, she had looked down at him, features softened in rest, and she could see traces of the boy she'd known since they were eleven. She reflected back on those first few months after she'd come to Manhattan, when he'd laughed all the time. The long, brutal struggle for Brooklyn and the responsibilities of leadership had hardened Spot, made him more serious, watchful. For a couple of years after he took over it was very seldom that she saw glimpse of the old Spot. At first she had missed her easy-going friend, but over time, she'd come to understand Spot leader. With that understanding had come deep respect and, she realized with a gasp, great love.

"Well damn," she whispered to herself. _I love him._

'Huh?" Spot nudged her arm. "What'd ya say?"

Startled she looked up to find him giving her an odd look.

"Nothin'. It was nothin'," she told him, looking away to hide her embarrassment.

She knew he wasn't fooled, but he let it go, leaving her free to grapple with this new revelation on her own.

Jack and David waited with the others on the steps of the lodging house. The Jacobs boy eyed Spot warily as the rest called out greetings.

"Heya fellas, Pocket," Jack welcomed them, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and tossing it to Racetrack. "Found it," he answered in response to Race's questioning look. Pocket bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"So what's the plan, Cowboy?" Race wanted to know.

The other boys all spoke at once, each with a different suggestion.

"I gotta get back to Brooklyn soon, Jacky-boy," Spot raised his voice to be heard. "So if ya wanna talk, it's gotta be now."

Jack stood and nodded his agreement, already walking away. Spot fell into step beside him, and the two leaders headed off down the street in search of a private place to talk. David started after them but stopped in his tracks when Jack glanced back and said "You stay here an' keep an eye on things Davey. Me an' Spot got a lotta things ta discuss."

Flushing, the novice newsie stared at his feet, embarrassed at being publicly shut out. His face grew even redder when the Brooklynite shot him a superior look.

"Meet at Tibby's for lunch, Jack instructed his newsies, who quickly wandered off to find their own amusement.

Pocket walked over to Racetrack, shoving his shoulder.

"C'mon Race," she invited. "Bet we can get a game up over in Harlem."

Hearing this, Spot turned and motioned her to him. She strolled over, and he bummed a cigarette. He leaned forward and murmured low into her ear, none of the other newsies heard him warn her not to go too far.

She gave no reply, just turned and link arms with Racetrack, but as the two of them sauntered around the corner, David heard her say, "Ya know Race, on second thought, we could always go down the block and watch the fights."


	13. Wanna go to the rally?

The morning passed fairly quickly. David hung around with Blink and Mush, who couldn't stop talking about a pretty girl he'd met. Pocket and Race picked up some extra money betting on the boxing matches, but soon got bored and rejoined their friends at the diner.

"Hey, Mouth," Pocket said, plopping down in the chair next to him. She chuckled as his eyes darted wildly around the room.

"He ain't here," she said drily.

"Who?"

"The one you'se lookin' for," she answered. "Spot. He ain't back yet. Don't worry."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he bluffed, earning himself a knowing look.

"Look, Dave, I know he said somethin' to ya," she said bluntly.

David just sat there, not knowing what to say. Pocket obviously didn't expect a response.

"Figure there's good odds Jack warned ya too," she continued. "Somebody prob'y told ya 'bout what Spot did to that kid a while back."

She eyed him closely and could see she was right.

David shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unable to recall ever being in a more uncomfortable situation.

"Listen,' she said carefully, leaning forward. "I'm flattered an' all, but they was right ta warn ya. The boys in Manhattan don't care who I talk to, but don't let anybody else see ya lookin' at me. Spot meant whatever it was he said to ya."

She sat back, absently tapping her fingers on the table as she waited for him to say something. She waved at a couple of boys walking in the door but shook her head when they started to come over.

"Why are you telling me this?" David asked her.

She shrugged. "I like talkin' to ya, but the last thing we need right now is Spot wantin' ta soak ya. Jack'll stand up for ya, and Manhattan will back him up. Then Brooklyn and Manhattan will be against each other, and that's a problem we don't need."

After a moment's consideration, David slowly nodded his understanding.

"So what would you do?" he wondered.

"Whatcha mean?" Her brow knotted in confusion.

"If Brooklyn and Manhattan were at odds," he elaborated. "Who would you choose?"

She gave him one of her trademark eye rolls, as if the answer should be obvious. But then her eyes widened when it dawned on her that she didn't know. She blinked at him, green eyes trouble.

"I don't know," she whispered. "Hope I never have to make that choice."

He wanted to say more but Blink came over with his food. Eager for the distraction, Pocket started joking around with her friend. David left to go sit with the other newsies.

Everybody else was already at the restaurant when Jack and Spot walked in. The newsies waited expectantly for some sort of announcement, but neither boy said anything. Spot looked around for Pocket, who was still lounging with Blink at one of the corner tables. She raised a hand to get his attention, and he walked over to her, taking the seat that Blink quickly vacated. The two of them held a whispered conference, ignoring the others.

A bell rang as the door opened, and a chorus of cheers went up as Denton showed the newsies the article in the Sun. They were all thrilled with the sight of their own faces grinning up at them from the front page.

It was the newspaper article that gave Jack the idea for the rally. Anything that got them more attention could only help. It would also be an opportunity to garner the support they needed from the other boroughs. Once again, Manhattan sent ambassadors out across the city to spread the word about the rally. The boys headed eagerly out to Queens, Harlem, Midtown – Brooklyn was covered this time, Spot would inform his boys when he went back. Pocket offered to go to the Bronx, steadfastly ignoring Spot's dark looks.

He stood by the door, arms folded, while she chatted briefly to Jack. After agreeing to come back to Manhattan to go with him to pick up Sarah, she waved a cheery goodbye and walked out. David sighed inwardly as he watched her fall into step beside Spot.

Once they were out of the diner, Pocket slipped an arm around his waist.

"Ya don't have ta worry, ya know," she said softly.

Spot curled his arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer. "I just don't like ya goin' by ya'self."

Instead of getting angry and arguing that she was capable of looking after herself, she tried to reassure him.

"I got friends in the Bronx," she reminded him. "Lucky's boys won't give me any trouble."

Steering her around a puddle, her argued, "It ain't the Bronx I'se worried about. It's Manhattan."

"What?" she scoffed. "I live here, who's gonna bother me?"

"Pay attention, goil," he snapped. "Afta yestaday, the Delancey's will be lookin' ta jump on the foist kid they find out alone. Ya can't take those two on ya'self. 'Specially now they saw ya without your hat an' they know you'se a goil. Ya'd be bettah off comin' back with me."

Pocket bit her tongue to keep her temper in check. It drove her crazy when Spot tried to act like he knew what was best for her.

"I ain't goin' back to across the bridge with ya," she said patiently.

"Why d'ya always gotta fight me?" he questioned. "Why can't ya evah just listen?"

"Why can't you stop treatin' me like a kid and let me take care of myself?"

Spot bit back a groan. He was so tired of having this same argument over and over again.

"Look," he told her, "I don't wanna fight with ya. I told ya already, I know you can handle ya'self. But ya also have a habit of gettin' inta trouble with that mouth of yours, and one of these days you'se gonna pick a fight with the wrong guy. I just don't want ya gettin' hoit."

Pocket sighed and stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. He held himself stiffly but didn't pull away.

"I know ya wanna keep me safe," she said softly, " but ya can't be with me all the time, an' ya can't lock me away where nobody can find me."

Spot wanted to argue, to tell her that he could do exactly that, but he could see her patience was wearing thin. He knew if he made her mad enough, she'd go looking for trouble just to prove she didn't need him. Her stubbornness caused him no small amount of frustration and worry, but he admitted to himself that it was one of the things he liked best about her. She never backed down.

"I'll be careful, Michael, I already promised ya that," she whispered as he gathered her close, stroking her back. "I won't go lookin' for trouble, but I ain't hidin' eitha."

Spot gave in, hugging her close, knowing that was the best he was going to get. They walked along in silence until they reached the bridge. Pocket started to go, headed off to the Bronx, but he didn't release her hand.

"I gotta ask ya somethin' Pocket," he said, his face serious.

She looked at him expectantly, and he wiped his sweaty palms against his pants.

"D'ya wanna go to the rally?"

She gave him an odd look. "Coise I'se goin'. Why wouldn't I?"

"No," he corrected, "I meant d'ya wanna go tagetha?"

"Can't," she answered, missing his point entirely. "Promised Cowboy I'd go with him ta pick up Sarah. But don't worry," she poked him in the shoulder. "I promise ta save ya a seat.'

"No," he tried again, staring down at her with those strange pale eyes, willing her to understand. "I thought maybe we could go _togetha_."

"I just toldja," she laughed, then froze and looked at him carefully. "Ya mean . . ."

He nodded. 'I thought, ya know, we could walk in togetha, and sit togetha, and . . . . ya know . . ." he trailed off.

Pocket blushed as she realized what he was asking . She'd attended plenty of parties with Spot, but before, she'd either met up with him there or came in with all of his newsies. If she walked in with him, and sat beside him all night, it would bring their relationship into the public eye. All the other newsies, from all over New York, would see her as Spot Conlon's girl.

"Are ya askin' me on a date, your highness?" she teased.

He grinned down at her, knowing that she understood what he wanted. "Well, it ain't a candlelight dinnah or nothin'" he joked, "but I was savin that for ya birthday."

Laughing, she hugged him tight. "I'd love ta go to the rally with ya," she told him.

"Good," he said gruffly, trying not to look to pleased with himself. "You do whatevah you gotta do with Jacky-boy, then come an' meet me at the bridge. We'll walk in togetha."

He pulled her in for a long, lingering kiss that left her dizzy. Releasing her, he tipped his cap and strode across the bridge, whistling a cheerful tune.

Pocket watched him go, a brilliant smile on her face. Having finally realized her feelings for the strong Brooklyn leader, nothing could have made her happier than for him to call her his girl.


	14. Prettiest Goil in New York

**_Thanks to all my fabulous reviewers! I love hearing what you guys think:) We're about to see a new side of Pocket . . . ._**

That evening, Pocket went with Jack to the Jacobs' apartment, to pick up Sarah and David. Mr. Jacobs welcomed Jack heartily when he answered the door. Pocket stood quietly in the doorway, eyes darting around the room, admiring everything. She'd never actually been inside a real home before, and was unsure how to act.

"Papa, this is Pocket," David introduced.

Mr. Jacobs stepped forward to shake her hand. "Nice to meet you, young man," he greeted her.

Jack laughed at this, reaching over to knock off her hat. She blushed and glared at him as Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs made noises of surprise. She hastily bent to pick up her hat and shoved it on her head.

"Forgive me, young lady," Mr. Jacobs apologized. "I didn't expect . . ." he trailed off, studying her curiously. "I'm just a little bit surprised," he went on. "I wasn't aware that girls sold newspapers, too."

"They don't," she answered as Mrs. Jacobs motioned her into a seat.

She sat carefully, perching on the edge of the cushions in an attempt not to get it dirty.

"Pocket heah is the one an' only goil newsie in New York," Jack said proudly. "Been in Manhattan about five years."

Mr. Jacobs nodded thoughtfully. "If you don't mind my asking, Miss Pocket," he said, "I find it interesting that you choose to sell papers instead of a more typical job."

"It's alright," Pocket said when Ms. Jacobs scolded him for being nosey. "Just sort of fell into it, at foist," she explained. " But I like it. Wouldn't do well in a factory, don't like bein' cooped up inside. An' I'se not classy enough for a shop, so sellin' papes is all that's left for me."

"And you enjoy it?" She nodded. "Are you good at it?"

She grinned. "Sure am. Sell a hundred a day, sometimes more."

Mr. Jacobs clearly had more questions but at that moment Sarah entered the room and all the men stood to greet her. Pocket stood too, awkwardly pulling at her clothes. Sarah looked so pretty in her nice dress with her hair curled. Pocket looked down at her patched and faded pants and her ragged shirt, for the first time wishing she was just a little bit more feminine.

Mrs. Jacobs noticed her discomfort and pulled her aside.

"I understand this rally is an important event," she said kindly. "Maybe you'd like to borrow something of Sarah's."

Pocket hesitated, embarrassed and not wanting to accept charity. Sarah walked over and tapped her on the shoulder.

"It'll be fun," she said coaxingly. "Come on, I have the perfect dress."

With a small smile, Pocket followed the older girl into her bedroom, ignoring Jack's complaints that they were going to be late. Sarah thanked her mother when she brought in warm water and filled the tub, then left the girls alone. Pocket washed up while Sarah dug through the wardrobe.

"Aha!" crowed Sarah, holding up a handful of pale green fabric.

She helped Pocket dress, doing up the row of tiny buttons that ran down the back. Pushing the smaller girl into a chair, she bustled about gathering a hairbrush and pins.

"You have really pretty hair," she said as she gently brushed out the dark curls.

"Thanks," Pocket said, surprised. She'd always liked her hair, it was her one concession to being a girl. That was why she kept it pulled up under her hat instead of cutting it off completely. But she never really thought it was pretty, certainly not compared to Sarah's soft, shining ringlets.

"There," Sarah finished with a satisfied smile. "All done."

She pulled Pocket to stand in front of a full length mirror.

Pocket blinked at her reflection, not recognizing the girl that stared back at her. Her hair lay curling over her shoulders, the sides were pinned back to drape down her back. The light summer dress was a pale green that made her skin glow and her eyes sparkle.

"It's a little long," Sarah said, "but if you're careful I think you'll be alright."

Pocket just stared at the mirror, amazed by what she saw.

"You ready?" Sarah prompted.

"Ready as I'll ever be," she answered, following Sarah out of the room.

Pocket couldn't help but laugh at Jack's reaction when he saw her. His mouth hung open, and he stumbled to his feet as he stared at her.

"Wow,' David whispered.

Pocket blushed uncomfortably and started joking to ease the moment.

"Shut ya mouth, Kelly," she teased, " a bug'll fly in."

Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs hurried the youngsters out the door. As they left, David's father shook her hand again, saying she was welcome back any time.

"Can't wait till the boys get a load of you," Jack laughed as they walked down the street.

"Shut up Kelly," she scolded. "You're just jealous cuz I clean up nice."

"Surprised is more like it," he answered, then gave a knowing wink. "I know somebody else who'se gonna be surprised," he said knowingly.

She punched him lightly in the arm, then took her leave, once again thanking Sarah for the loan of the dress.

"See you'se guys at the Hall," she told them, then skipped off toward the bridge.

Spot had sent a couple of boys ahead to keep an eye on her, she pretended not to notice them as she stood waiting at the end of the bridge. Soon she heard voices and looked up to see Brooklyn coming across, Spot in the lead. He almost walked right past her until she called out to him.

"Hey Brooklyn!" she ran to him, tripping over her skirts. "Thought you was gonna wait for me."

He stopped walking when he saw her, blue eyes wide as he took in her appearance.

"What's wrong?" she teased happily. "Ya act like ya ain't nevah seen a goil in a dress before."

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. Those light eyes traveled over her, from her loose curls down to her bare arms and her full skirt. His expression warmed, a now familiar glint in his eye when he looked down at her.

"Ya look . . ." he paused, searching for the right word. "Beautiful. Ya look beautiful," he whispered.

She blushed shyly, examining her hands. He stepped forward and took her hand, looking back at his newsies.

"Boys," he yelled, "Everybody's gonna be jealous a Brooklyn tanight. I got the best lookin' goil in New York right heah."

They all grinned and nodded in agreement. One particularly bold fellow let out an appreciative whistle. At Spot's quelling look he ducked behind his friends, but shot her a cheeky grin when Spot wasn't looking.


	15. All hell breaks loose

**Disclaimer: anything you recognize in this story belongs to Disney. Disney makes money off it. Anything you don't recognize is mine, and, unfortunately, I don't. **

As usual, Brooklyn made an entrance. They were the last to arrive, only a few stragglers were still milling around outside. Spot and his boys entered Irving Hall to the sound of yelling and whistling. The King of Brooklyn nodded regally as he strode through the crowd, Pocket at his side. She let him guide her threw the noisy throng, ignoring the curious looks directed her way. Her hand grasped his tightly as she hid her discomfort.

Pocket was used to being invisible. Her inherent ability to go unnoticed was a hold over from her years spent sneaking and stealing to survive. Now, simply by standing next to Spot Conlon, she found herself the center of attention. Word had spread quickly that the Brooklyn leader had a girl with him. Her attendance alone was telling in its significance. Though he had quite a reputation as a ladies man, Spot was widely known to never mix business with pleasure. And this rally, however enjoyable, was most definitely business. Any girl at his side during such an event was surely worth notice; if only they knew who she was.

Despite her natural tendency to fade into the background, Pocket was no stranger to the boys of the other boroughs. In fact, she knew almost every newsie in New York by name. She listened in amusement as they nudged each other, whispering guesses about her identity, for nobody recognized her in her borrowed clothes.

The Manhattaners caught on first but found it amusing to keep up the charade. They fell over themselves to offer their company as Spot took the stage with Jack and David, but she waved them off and went to join some of the boys from the Bronx. Lucky, the leader, recognized her immediately, motioning her to sit beside him.

"Heya, Pocket," he greeted her.

Those closest to him heard her name and gave her startled looks before scattering into the crowd. The discovery rippled through the hall even as a couple of Harlem kids approached the table. They both eyed her with interest, and she fought back a grin, remembering a card game last week where she had relieved both boys of about a week's wages. Oblivious, they pestered Lucky for an introduction.

"Oh, you know Pocket," he laughed at their stunned faces. "She's the Queen of Brooklyn."

The rally started out well. Pocket watched proudly as Spot argued with Jack and David up on stage. She grinned at the way the whole hall fell silent whenever her spoke, all the boys hanging on his words. Beside her Lucky watched carefully, more than one leader in the room was waiting to see what Spot decided. Only Pocket knew that the decision was already made. Spot had decided he would join, but his arguments onstage were not without purpose. He knew that the other boroughs needed a public agreement between Brooklyn and Manhattan, they needed to see that Spot Conlon supported Jack Kelly every step of the way. With the full power of Brooklyn behind him, Jack had no doubt the others would fall in line.

When the speeches where over, Pocket and Lucky conferred briefly as Medda came onstage, then spit on their hands to cement the alliance as the Lucky added his own support. She made her way over to Spot's table as the Swedish Meadowlark began to sing, but she was quickly dragged off to dance by the younger newsies.

Spot was sitting at a table watching her when David tapped his arm and pointed to Snyder. A bolt of fear shot through him when the police stormed in. He jumped up from his seat to fight his way through the crowd, trying to reach her. There were too many people blocking his way. He saw her pushing through the tangle of people, dragging a couple of the younger newsies to the exit. All around him kids were scattering in panic, rushing for the doors, and he lost sight of her.

Saying a silent prayer that she'd get out, Spot hurried into the lobby to find his boys. He found Fiver near the doors.

"Go!" he ordered. "Get out! Find the boys and get out! Head straight back to Brooky."

His second in command shook his head frantically. "Can't!" he shouted, pointing outside. "Look!"

The scene on the street was worse than inside. Mounted police and cops on foot chased the newsies, grabbing them and throwing them into the paddy wagon. Spot watched as Jack and Blink tried to find an opening in the circle of horses. He winced as he saw Blink take a club to the head and crumple to the ground.

"Spot!"

A voice behind him made him whirl around. Pocket stood there, red-faced and panting, but totally calm. She launched herself at him and he grabbed her tight.

"They got Race," she shouted. "And Skittery, and Bumlets. Specs and Dutchy too." She rattled off the names of the Manhattan newsies who'd been caught.

"Blink too," he told her regretfully.

The noise in the hall grew even louder as the Crips started pouring in, laughing cruelly as they pounded the kids in their way.

"We gotta go," Spot yelled. "C'mon, we'll go out the back." He started pulling her along but Pocket wouldn't move.

She stood frozen, staring over his shoulder. He turned just in time to see Jack carried away. He swore viciously, and Pocket jumped. She started forward, straining to reach Jack, but Spot held her back.

"Don't," he said. "Ya can't do nothin'. We gotta get out _now_."

She nodded softly, turning with one last look at Jack as he was carried out the door. Her face was set, calm – a perfect match for his own blank mask. Like him, she kept cool in the midst of all the chaos, they both knew that they needed to think clearly, calmly.

Spot saw the exact moment her calm shattered.

With a cry of rage she tore her arm free of his grasp and threw herself at Oscar Delancey, who was dragging an unconscious Slips across the carpet. She wrapped her arms around his neck, using her weight to topple him over. Spot jumped forward, but didn't reach her in time to stop Oscar from landing a blow to the side of her face. Her head rocked back with the force of the punch, and Spot saw red.

Roaring with fury, he fell upon the unlucky Delancey, raining blows with his fists and cane. He was so intent on his target that he didn't see the officer approaching behind him. Pocket called out a warning just before strong hands yanked him up, pinning his arms behind his back.

Kicking and struggling, he fought to break free as the policeman half-dragged, half –carried him out the door. His last glimpse of Pocket saw cornered by Morris Delancey, biting and scratching as he trapped her next to the limp form of his brother.

Spot cursed and spat as they forced him into the wagon. Out of the corner of his eye he saw David running from one boy to another, unable to help any of them.

"Mouth!" Spot screamed as the doors clanged shut. David looked up at him, eyes wild.

"Pocket!" Spot yelled as the wagon started to pull away. "She's inside. Find Pocket!"

The last thing he saw when the wagon turned the corner was David's determined nod.


	16. I hafta find her

6

**Another chapter, I am feeling generous. If you review, I will give you a sticker.**

**Disclaimer: Disney blah blah blah, not mine, yada yada yada. You get the idea.**

That night was the longest Spot had ever endured. He paced the floor of the small cell non-stop for the first two hours. Ten steps to the wall, turn, then ten steps back to the other wall, over and over until Racetrack finally threw a shoe at him. He spent the rest of the night slumped against the wall, face buried in his hands.

No matter how many times his friends tried to reassure him, he couldn't stop worrying about Pocket. Race and Blink told him over and over that David had surely managed to find her and get her away safely, but he ignored them until after a while they gave up.

Spot couldn't shake the images that plagued him – he pictured her locked up, he pictured her lying on the ground, beaten and broken. The few short minutes he didn't spend thinking about Pocket tormented him with visions of Jack being carried away, and fear for the safety of his own boys. None of his newsies were locked up here, but that didn't mean they'd made it back across the bridge.

The rush of relief Spot felt when Denton offered to pay the fines was quickly replaced by panic when he saw that David and Les were alone. He waited impatiently with his friends outside the courthouse, fairly leaping on the boy when he finally came out.

He heard David tell the others that Jack had been sent to the refuge, but that fact barely registered as he grabbed the taller boy by the shirt.

"Where is she?" he demanded. "Where's Pocket?"

The blatant fear on David's face was answer enough.

"I don't know," he admitted softly, watching carefully for Spot's reaction.

The Brooklyn leader clenched his jaw to keep from hitting the other boy.

"What d'ya mean, ya don't know?" he asked slowly, his voice low and menacing. "I told ya to make sure she was safe." He tightened his hold on David's shirt.

"I know! I tried," David pleaded for understanding. "I ran back inside, but I couldn't find her."

Blink and Mush rushed to pull Spot away before he maimed the frightened Jacobs boy.

"You was s'posed ta look out for her!" he shouted, struggling to get free.

"I stayed as long as I could," David squeaked. "I just couldn't find her. There were people running everywhere and I had to leave before the police caught me."

"Ya bettah hope she's alright, Mouth," Spot yelled. "If she ain't, I'se gonna beat the hell outta ya."

He turned his attention to the two boys holding him back. "Let me go," he commanded.

"I mean it, let me go," he repeated when Blink and Mush didn't obey. "I hafta find her."

They dropped his arms and stepped back, watching him carefully, ready to grab him if he went after David again.

The King of Brooklyn had already shifted his attention to other matters. He straightened his clothes, checked to make sure his slingshot and cane were both tucked securely into his belt loops, and took off down the street.

If Spot hadn't been slowed down by the beating he'd taken the night before, they might never have caught him. As it was, Racetrack had to hurl himself at the other boys legs, knocking him into the dust. Spot started swinging, but this time they were ready for him. Blink grabbed his arms, Mush threw himself across Spot's flailing legs, and Racetrack sat on his chest, forcing the furious Brooky to meet his eyes.

"Spot," he said softly, in a tone he'd heard the jockey's at Sheepshead use with skittish horses.

"Spot, listen," he repeated as his friend continued to struggle and swear.

Racetrack swallowed his fear as he stared down into the rage-filled eyes of Spot Conlon, eyes that promised retribution.

"Ya can't go runnin' off," he said.

"Get off me!" Spot screamed. "I gotta go find her!"

"If ya go runnin' off half-cocked, ya might nevah find her," Race reasoned. "We don't even know where she is."

"Ya can't go tearin' through New York lookin' for her," Blink agreed.

Racetrack glared at the other boy, warning him to keep quiet.

"We have ta be smart," the little Italian tried again. "Let's go back to the Lodgin' House. Maybe she went back there. If not, maybe the boys heard somethin'."

Spot's struggles lessened, and the blind fury in his eyes began to fade into cold calculation. Seeing that his words were having an effect, Race continued.

"We can send somebody over to Brooklyn, let 'em know we'se lookin' for her."

Finally the Brooklyn leader went still. He nodded up at Racetrack.

"Fine. I'll go back. But if she ain't there . . ." he trailed off, his meaning clear.

Racetrack stood slowly, motioning to Blink and Mush. The two boys let go of Spot, who scrambled to his feet. For a second, the anger flared in his eyes again and he took a menacing step forward. Race stopped him with a firm hand on his arm.

"We wanna find her too," he reminded. "Fightin' with us is just waistin' time."

Spot didn't answer, just turned and headed toward the Lodging House at a ground eating pace.

He burst through the door, startling the handful of newsies waiting in the common room. They all jumped up, clamoring for news.

"What happened?"

"We saw the bulls get ya!"

"Where's Jack?"

Ignoring them all, Spot surveyed the room. Seeing no sign of Pocket, he took the stairs two at a time to search the bunkroom. He returned almost immediately, alone, drawing curses and groans from the older boys. The other newsies, especially David, were unnerved by the expression of complete panic that transformed the normally stoic leader's face.

"Pocket's missing," he said in reply to the questioning looks directed his way.

"Has anybody seen her?" he asked anxiously, a frantic edge to his voice. "Anybody hear what happened to her?"

The small group shook their heads dumbly. Spot slammed his fist into the wall, ignoring the pain. Knuckles bleeding, he slumped forward, pressing his head to the wall, fighting to gather his wits. It took a moment for him to pull himself together, then he turned once again to face the newsies.

"Boots!" he barked. The little boy jumped forward.

"Go to Brooklyn," Spot ordered. "Maybe she's there. Tell Fiver I'se alright, and find out if all me boys made it home. If she ain't there, tell Fiver to get the boys togetha an' start lookin'."

Boots rushed to do as he was told.

"Come straight back here," Spot reminded him.

He turned to the other boys. "You, you, and both a you'se," he pointed, "go to Harlem and the Bronx, they's the closest. Find out if they know anythin'."

Nobody stopped to question Spot's authority, the steely tone of his voice was enough to send them rushing off to do his bidding. The rest of the boys were eager to help look for Pocket, and he dispatched a few of them to gather information, instructing them to start at Medda's and work outward from there.

Momentarily out of orders to issue, he collapsed weakly into the nearest chair, giving in to his worry. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he drew in several long, shuddering breaths.

Racetrack stepped forward to comfort his friend, but a commotion outside stopped him in his tracks. All eyes in the room turned to the door.

"Kelly!" a rough voice called. "You in there?"

Someone pounded the door.

"Open up!" the same voice ordered. "What about Conlon? He in there?"

Spot stood, cane raised, eyes fixed on the door.

"Who's askin'?" he challenged.

"It's Lucky, ya punk. Open the damn door!"

Spot relaxed slightly and nodded at Mush to open the door. The younger boy swore when he looked outside, and Spot stepped closer, cane ready.

The cane hit the floor, a deafening clatter in the sudden silence that had befallen the common room. The Manhattan newsies watched in horror as Lucky entered, bearing the still, pale form of Pocket carefully in his arms.


	17. Lucky's story

Spot stood frozen in the center of the room, eyes fixed on the figure in Lucky's arms. She didn't move, her small body was limp, and for a brief, hellish moment, Spot prepared himself for the worst.

He crossed the room in two long strides, arms outstretched to relieve the Bronx leader of his precious burden. Pocket let out a soft moan, and Spot found he could breathe again.

She fought against him as she started to wake up, and his heart caught when he saw how weak she was. He sank down onto the sofa, cradling her gently. Her struggles ceased when she opened her eyes and saw where she was. She smiled up at him, wincing at the pain in her split lip.

"Katie," he whispered as she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck.

Spot stroked her hair, holding her close, letting her relax into him. Over her head he saw Twitchy, Lucky's second in command, walk in carrying Slips.

"Get Kloppman," Pocket instructed. David ran off to find the old man.

Pocket insisted that Kloppman tend to Slips before she would allow him to look her over. Both of the little spy's eyes were blackened and his leg was bent at an odd angle. Kloppman pronounced the leg broken and directed Twitch to carry the little boy upstairs so he could set it.

They all cringed at the cries of pain that drifted down the stairs. Only when the yelling stopped and Kloppman came back down did she relax.

"He's sleeping now," the old man said. "Just have to hope that leg heals up right."

Satisfied that Slips was taken care of, Pocket finally submitted to having her wounds cleaned. Once her lip was seen to, he started on her battered knuckles, leaving her free to answer Spot's questions.

"What happened?" he asked anxiously. "Last thing I saw was you fightin' wit one o' dem Delanceys."

"I saw 'em take ya," she told him, "but when I tried ta go afta, Morris got in my way." She spoke quickly, and it was obvious she was leaving out details. "I got rid of him, then I was tryin' ta get me an' Slips out. Couldn't go out da front, so I went for the stairs, but I fell cuz –"

She broke off, cursing as Kloppman turned her hand this way and that. "That's all I rememba. Dammit Kloppy that hoits!" she yanked away from him.

"Can't be helped," the old man apologized. "Your shoulder is out."

"Damn!" she swore viciously, glaring at the offending limb. Then she sighed in resignation, offering her arm. "Go ahead an' fix it den," she grumbled.

The room fell silent as Kloppman prepared to reset her shoulder. Racetrack hurried forward with a bottle of whiskey. She took a quick slug, then went to put it aside but thought better of it, taking one more swallow before handing it back. She gave a quick nod, her other hand gripping Spot's.

The newsies watched in amazement as the old man pulled steadily on her arm, shoving it back into its socket. If they hadn't hear the sickening "pop" they would never have known anything happened. Pocket didn't make a sound, didn't blink or flinch, just sat calmly watching the proceedings.

David excused himself to go be sick outside. He returned just as Kloppman was wrapping her shoulder in strips of bedsheet, fashioning a makeshift sling.

Ractrack held out the bottle and she took it gratefully. David grimaced as he watched her gulp it down. She gave a satisfied grunt, then seeing that Spot's face had taken on an interesting shade of grey, she offered him the bottle. He upended it, draining the last of the fiery liquid in an effort to control the anger and worry that threatened to overwhelm him. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to Lucky.

"I'se thinkin' ya got somethin' ta add to the story," he said dryly.

The Bronx leader nodded, cleaning his throat as the newsies looked at him expectantly.

"Me an' Twitchy an' a coupla me other boys wasn't too far away when the bulls gotcha Conlon. Woulds stepped in, but we had our hands full," he explained apologetically.

"So we finally takes care a dem bums, an' we see Pocket fightin' with dat skinny punk. Had her cornered for a second but then she kicked the hell outta his jaw and he fell ovah. So she goes for the kid, cuz the bulls is lookin' at her next. " He paused, shaking his head in admiration. "She's a brawler, is Pocket."

Pocket grinned at the compliment, Spot tightened his arm around her.

"Anyway," Lucky continued. "We'se tryin' ta get over to help her, cuz she's carryin' da kid up them stairs, ovah her shoulders like. Kid ain't dat big, but Pocket ain't neither and she was havin' a tough time. We got to the stairs right when she hit the top, and she runs smack into a handful a Crips. She fought 'em a bit, but she was still holdin' onta the kid. Thought she had 'em for a second, she went nuts when they pulled the kid away, just tackled the biggest guy. But it didn't work. One of the guys pushed the kid down the stairs and she spit on him." He looked grim. "Fat bastard just laughed and tossed her down right afta."

Lucky's face was set in anger. He'd always has a soft spot for Pocket, who'd lived mostly in his territory back in her pickpocket days. Spot looked ready to do murder. The two leaders shared a significant look, silently agreeing to go after the Crips when the strike was over.

"Me boys wanted to soak the sons-a-bitches, but the bulls was comin' for Pocket and the kid, so we had to cheese it quick. Grabbed 'em and ducked out the back. Pocket woke up halfway back to the Bronx, an' she put up a fight, wantin' ta come back ta 'Hatten." He shot her a teasing look. "Thought I was gonna have to knock her out again."

"Like ya could," she snorted. Spot gave her a look.

"She passed out again, an' didn't wake up till latah. Foist thing she did, afta she checked on the kid, was try to run back here afta yer sorry ass, Conlon. I wanted to lay low back at the Lodgin', didn't wanna be runnin around, case the bulls were still out. She weren't too happy 'bout it, but she had to stay cuz she couldn't haul the kid back to 'Hatten on her own. Soon as we woke up dis mornin' she was houndin' me ta bring 'em back here."

" How come ya had to be carried back, Pocket?" Spot wanted to know. "What else is wrong with ya?" he ran his hands over her legs, checking for injuries.

"Jesus, Spot, I'se fine," she complained. "Just banged up is all. I coulda walked back ovah here fine, but himself ovah there kept whinin' that I was too slow."

"Ya _was_ too slow." Lucky retorted. "Walkin' like an old lady. People was startin' ta give us funny looks."

"Yeah, " she said sarcastically. "Cuz nobody noticed when ya carried me through the street."

Lucky shot her a fake dirty look, she responded with a rude gesture.

"What about you fellas?" she changed the subject, not ready to deal with Spot's questions and worries. "Thought for sure yous'd all be locked up still."

"Nah, just for the night," Race spoke up. "They was gonna send us to the refuge for a coupla weeks cuz we ain't got five bucks each for the fines. But our man Denton showed up and forked ovah the dough ta get us out."

"Yeah, but Race, where's Cowboy?" she questioned.

Racetrack's face fell, he glanced around at the somber faces of his fellow newsies.

"They kept Jack," he said sadly


	18. Pocket's promise

5

That night, Spot stayed at the Lodging House with Pocket instead of going with David and the boys to rescue Jack. Pocket had been subdued that day, napping off and on, exhausted from her ordeal at the rally. Spot went to Tibby's with the others to meet Denton, but hadn't stayed very long. He found it hard to leave her side, and wasn't present when Denton announced that he would no longer write about the strike.

The newsies returned disheartened, but neither Spot nor Pocket were very surprised at the reporter's decision. More than any of the others, Spot understood power and influence; he hadn't put much faith in Denton's support. He'd known it wouldn't be long before the other newspaper owners put pressure on the Sun to ignore the strike. Pocket had been grateful for the strike coverage, but had never fully trusted Denton the way David had. A childhood spent on the street had taught her that what David was just beginning to understand. When all was said and done, street kids could only depend on each other.

Blink, Race, Much and Boots came home late that night, without David, or Jack. Blink and Race joined Spot at Pocket's bedside, and the four of them spoke quietly about Jack's refusal to run away. The little Italian was more serious than Pocket had ever seen him. They were all confused by Jack's actions, and wondered what he was thinking. They tried to understand, but in the end they finished their discussion just as bewildered as before.

Race and Blink gave Pocket quick hugs and wandered off to bed. Spot stood and helped her to her feet.

"Let's go outside."

She leaned heavily on him as they made their way downstairs and out onto the steps of the Lodging House. He settled her onto his lap and took the cigarette she offered him.

"I'm glad you'se okay," he told her quietly. She didn't answer.

"I was worried about ya, when we didn't know where ya was," he continued, feeling a strong need to give voice to the fears that had plagued him.

She turned to look at him, her face sad. She opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head, needing to get it all out.

"I'd nevah forgive myself if somethin' happened to ya. It's my job ta look out for ya. I couldn't even keep ya safe an' I was right there." His voice broke slightly as the words tumbled over each other. "I'm sorry . . ." he trailed off, pulling her closer.

Pocket wrapped her good arm around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Don' blame ya'self, Spot," she whispered, her breath warm on his neck. "Ya know I'se always gettin' myself inta some kinda trouble. But I'se fine, don't worry. Lucky got me out."

Her words only upset him more.

"But it's my job!" he said harshly. "I shoulda been there for ya, not Lucky. You're _my_ goil," he grumbled possessively.

Again, she said nothing, just held him, placing soft kisses along his jaw.

"I want ya ta come back with me," he announced. "You'll be safah in Brooklyn. Everythin's a mess here. Ya need to come back where I can take care of ya, at least until yer arm gets bettah."

She sighed against his cheek, then pulled away to look at him.

"I can't go, Spot," she said sadly. "I gotta stay here."

"Why?" he asked desperately, even though he wasn't surprised by her answer.

"Yestaday, while you was across the Bridge, Snyder came lookin' for Jack," she told him. "Course nobody said anythin', but it made Jack noivous. He told me, on the way ta Sarah's last night, that if anythin' happened ta him, he needed me ta take his place."

"What, ya mean like take over Manhattan?" Spot asked, shocked.

She shook her head. "No, that'd nevah work." As strong as she was, and as much as they liked her, it wouldn't do for a girl to lead the newsies.

"Just help keep things goin'," she explained. "Dave's smart, but he ain't like Jack. Nobody'd listen ta him. The fellas would listen to Race, maybe Blink, but they need somebody to keep 'em from fallin' apart."

Spot nodded his agreement. "Think they'll listen to ya?"

She shrugged. "Mostly. With Race's help. The point is, Dave can't do it. With out somebody in charge, it's all ovah." She gave him a resigned look. "They need _you_, Spot."

He sat quietly, mulling over what she'd said. She was right, he knew it. David was pretty smart, but he didn't have what it took. Blink and Race had the respect of the other newsies, but they, too, lacked the charisma and energy that made people listen to Jack. And she was right, too, when she said they need him. Pocket was stubborn and ballsy enough to keep Manhattan in the strike, but without a strong leader, all the other boroughs would lose confidence and back off. He was the only one who could step in, but he knew that he couldn't.

She knew it too, and didn't argue when he shook his head slowly.

"I can't, Pocket," he told her regretfully. "I can't stay outta Brooklyn that long. With no papes ta sell, me boys'll be fightin an' gettin' inta trouble. I gotta be there ta keep 'em in line."

"I know," she agreed. "Ya gotta worry about ya boys. Manhattan ain't your responsibility."

"I'm sorry," he began, but she put a finger to his lips.

"I _know_," she repeated. "I understand why ya can't stay. But do _you_ understand why I hafta?"

Reluctantly, he nodded, and she removed her finger, replacing it with her lips. They kissed softly, Spot struggling to keep a tight hold on his desire. He wanted to do more than just kiss her, wanted to let his body reassure him that she was alright. He just wasn't sure she was ready for it, even without her shoulder injury.

She pulled away from him with a jaw-cracking yawn. He chuckled softly.

"I must be borin' ya," he teased. She gave him a sleepy smile. "C'mon." he stood, cradling her in his arms. "Ya need some rest."

Pocket was asleep in his arms by the time her reached her bunk. He tucked her under the covers before removing his shirt and boots and sliding in next to her. Careful not to bother her shoulder, he settled her against his chest.

Spot stayed awake far into the night, keeping watch over the sleeping girl. He searched his mind for a way to convince her to come back with him. She'd not leave Manhattan, he knew that, he understood her promise to Jack. Really, he expected nothing less from the girl who was every bit as stubborn as he. Spot grinned to himself, thinking that if Pocket had been a boy she'd rule half of New York by now. But she wasn't. She was a girl, _his _girl, and he wanted her to be safe.

Lately, Spot had been thinking a lot about Pocket staying with him full time. He missed her when she wasn't around , and he worried about her. No matter how many boys he sent to keep an eye on her, Spot was convinced that no one could take better car e of Pocket than he could.

On the flip side of that was his concern over what her constant presence would do to his reputation. Her being his girl was one thing, but he worried that if she was always around he wouldn't be able to keep up his leader persona. He had spent years cultivating his image – he was a mean bastard, and that's why nobody messed with Brooklyn. With Pocket, it was harder for him to maintain a distance. Around her, he couldn't be the ruthless king who ruled the docks with an iron fist.

What he didn't realize was that his feelings for Pocket were no secret. All of Brooklyn could see that she was special to him. But rather than make him weak, it made him human. Spot Conlon had always been an untouchable enigma, almost god-like in status. He was tough, but fair, and his boys followed him willingly. But they were happy to see a softer side, however small, now in addition to the respect they held for their leader, he was more approachable, and they could like him as well.

Spot scooted down the bed until his head was next to Pocket's on the pillow. He kissed her cheek softly, and in the stillness of the darkened bunkroom, he whispered the words he was still to afraid to speak in the light of day.


	19. It ain't ovah

5

Spot surveyed the chaos at the distribution center. Pocket was right. Without Jack, the Manhattan newsies were little more than a disorganized mob. Tensions were high and the boys had starting fighting amongst themselves. Spot carefully stayed out of things as David tried to calm them down. Beside him, Pocket kept a watchful eye o the frazzled newsie, ready step in. For now, she was content to let the boys work off some of their energy, despite Spot's trouble. When the younger ones started a scuffle, however, they both stepped in to break them up.

The scabs were coming out with their papers, and Pocket moved forward to keep the striking newsies in line. Her eyes widened when Weasel pulled someone up front.

Pocket stayed silent as Jack stepped forward to the jeers and insults of his former friends. She didn't react when Spot lost his temper and had to be dragged away. Nor did she say anything when David finally launched himself at Jack. Through the entire confrontation, she stood quietly, never taking her eyes off Jack.

Her gaze didn't falter even as she was shoved aside by a policeman to give Weasel space to usher Jack through the crowd. He looked her way once, briefly, then over at Spot. She willed him to speak to her, but he couldn't even meet her eyes. They both knew who he'd betrayed the most.

Poor little Les refused to believe in Jack's defection, protesting as the older boys shouted at his retreating back. Pocket saw the dark look on Racetrack's face as they all humored the little boy.

"Yeah, he's foolin 'em."

Spot's anger was palpable as he stood watching the shattered newsies mill aimlessly around the courtyard. At his shoulder, Pocket waited grimly for the explosion she knew was coming. But he didn't blow up. Not yet. Instead he spat in the dirt, glaring off in the direction Jack had gone.

"I'se goin home," he muttered, and started walking.

He made it to the corner before realizing she wasn't next to him. Turning, he motioned her over. She shook her head slowly, gearing up for the fight.

"Let's go," he commanded. Once again she shook her head.

She held her ground as he stalked over to her, eyes flashing silver in his fury. Her own temper was very close to snapping, and she bit her tongue to stay calm. Anger was written in every line of Spot's face, from his slightly flared nostrils to the muscle that jumped in his jaw.

"I'm goin' home," he said again.

"I know."

"It's ovah, Pocket," he told her, his voice hoars with the effort it took to keep from shouting. "It's ovah. Now let's go home."

" I _am_ home, Spot." She didn't miss the flash of hurt her words caused. "It ain't ovah. You can go, but I'm stayin. I promised Jack-"

"_Fuck_ Jack!" he spat, cutting her off. "And fuck your promise!" His voice rose steadily until he yelling. "Ya don't owe that bum nothin."

A couple of the younger boys jumped at the venom in his tone. Even the older ones looked on nervously. Just a few had seen Spot Conlon really use his temper, and none of them wanted to see it again. Only Pocket didn't flinch at the signs that the Brooklyn leader was perilously close to the edge.

The others watched fearfully as Spot and Pocket glared at each other. He was breathing heavily, fists clenched at his side. She stared up at him, her apparent calm an unsettling contrast to his blatant fury. It would have been funny if everyone present hadn't been so afraid of the outcome.

"I get it, Spot," she said. "I know you'se mad."

"Damn right I'se mad," he shouted.

"Quit yellin: she said quietly, placing a gentle hand on his chest. Even in his rage her touch was comforting, his anger dissipating enough to allow him to speak at a normal volume.

"I am mad," he repeated, his voice no less menacing for all it was softer than before. "I trusted him," he ground out between gritted teeth. "We all trusted him. Me, you, Lucky – every damn newsie in New York stopped sellin papes cuz he said it would make a difference. Now we're all broke, Crutchy's locked up, Slips' leg is broken, and Kelly's skippin around town in his fancy new suit with a fistful of quarters. So yeah, I am mad. I brought my boys into this, I put Brooklyn on the line, an' now I gotta go back and tell em' all Kelly's a traitor an' let's go beg for our jobs back so we don't starve. So let's go. Ya don't have ta keep ya promise."

He grabbed the hand on his chest and made to go, but she pulled away from him.

"Kelly didn't keep his promise," she admitted, conscious of the crowd of newsies hanging on every word. "But I'se keepin' mine. Sure, Crutchy's in the refuge, and Slips is hoit. I ain't gonna let that be for nothing. So you'se right," she said. "Fuck Kelly. David's right, we don't need him.

The gathered newsies cheered, encouraged by her declaration. Spot's reply was almost lost in the uproar, but Pocket heard him.

"Ya think they can keep this up without Jack, an' without me?" he scoffed. "Ya think Davey ovah there has the balls? Wise up, sweetheart. Come back to Brooklyn, maybe we can make it in time to sell the evenin edition."

"Maybe he don't got what it takes, but I do," she assured him vehemently. "I'm seein this damn thing through!"

"You an' the Mouth, huh?" His voice dripped with scorn.

"Yeah, me an' the Mouth."

Spot glared at David and took a step toward him, but Pocket moved to stand in front of the other boy.

"I don't have time for your jealously, Conlon," she said coldly, a thread of steel underlining her words. "Go back to the docks. I got things to do."

A collective gasp escaped from the watching newsies at her harsh dismissal. They all backed away, watching anxiously for Spot's reaction.

"Pocket," he bit out. "I ain't playin. You'se my goil, ya belong in Brooklyn with me.

She crossed her arms across her chest. "Then I guess I ain't ya goil no more," she announced. "Cuz I'se stayin right here."

Spot stood looking down at her for a long moment, his face shuttered. Then he turned on his heel and left.

Pocket's own face was devoid of emotion as she watched him go, standing there long after he was out of sight. She turned to David.

"Ya wanted to know what would happen if I had ta choose between Brooklyn and Manhattan?"

She walked away without waiting for his reply.


	20. Friendly advice

**Sorry it's been a couple of days since I updated, I have been uber-busy. So I will put up 2 chapter to make up for it : ) Also, I think this chapter is a little bit boring, but it needed to be in there, but the next one will be more exciting, I promise. Anyway, on with the show – Review PLEASE! I see lots of you read it, but not so many people review. C'mon people, I need feedback! **

**Disclaimer: Pocket, Fiver, Slips, and Lucky are my own beloved creations. Spot & co, as well as the main storyline, belong to Disney. Please don't sue me for the 49 cents I have in the bank.**

Pocket was gone most of the day, finally returning later that afternoon. When she walked up, David and Racetrack were sitting outside the Lodging House.

"Alright, Pocket?" Racetrack greeted. She nodded absently, lost in thought.

"Where ya been?" he asked.

"Bronx," she answered flatly. "Went ta talk ta Lucky." She paused, lighting a cigarette.

David jumped in anxiously. "What did he say?"

"He's still with us," she told them, and sighed heavily. "Tamarra we'se gonna hafta go back out again, to the othas. Word goes fast. They'll all know about Kelly by mornin."

"Do you think the other newsies will stick with us?" David asked.

"Pends on Brooklyn," Race put in with a sidways glance at Pocket.

"Is Spot going to cause trouble for us?" David worried.

"No." Pocket spoke softly, but with complete confidence. "He ain't with us, but he ain't against us, eitha."

"Gonna be tough though," Race observed. "Not sure the othas is gonna wanna stay in the strike if Brooklyn's out."

"Yeah," she agreed. "I'se gonna hafta go myself, talk ta the leaders, convince 'em that we can still win without Spot." She looked tired, and Racetrack patted her shoulder.

"Give him a coupla days," he told her gently. "He'll come around. The two of ya's had fights before."

She shook her head. "Not after I told him I ain't his goil. He ain't comin' back."

Sadness was written plainly on her face. She took a drag of her cigarette and stared moodily off into the distance. The two boys shared an uncomfortable look, and the darker one hugged her.

"Why'd ya say it, Pocket?" he asked quietly.

She blew smoke in a huff. "He made me mad," she said. "Always tellin' me what ta do. Thinks he know everythin." A note of irritation crept into her voice as she remembered his high-handedness.

"Ya know he don't mean it like that," her friend said. "He's just so used ta bossin people around he don't know how to be any otha way."

"He only tells you what to do because he worries about you," David put in. Discussing the absent Brooklynite made him uncomfortable, but he felt he had to speak up.

"I took care of myself fine before I even met him, and I still can," she insisted.

"Don't mean he ain't gonna try to keep ya outta trouble," Race argued with her. "He can handle hisself too, but that don't stop ya from tryin to look out for him. That's what ya do when ya care about people," he explained, showing a level of sensitivity that surprised David.

Pocket knew he was right, but she wasn't ready to give in yet.

"Then he's always gotta think he's the only one that can do anythin right," she complained. "Sayin we can't keep the strike goin without him, sayin I ain't got what it takes." She tossed her cigarette on the ground in an angry gesture. "Guess he don't rememba who he's dealin with!"

Racetrack chuckled. "Two of ya are too much alike, that's ya problem. Both of ya stubborn as hell and ya both got too much damn pride. That's why you'se mad," he teased. "Cuz he insulted ya pride."

She shot him a dirty look.

"Ya know," David spoke up again, "you should go talk to him. He really does want what is best for you."

Pocket turned to study him curiously. "What's with you?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he asked, confused.

"I mean," she kept her eyes on him," all of a sudden ya want me ta go make nice on Spot. Thought ya liked me. Shouldn't ya want me ta stay away from him?"

The brainy newsie shifted restlessly under her scrutiny.

"Well," he hedged," there is the fact that if I made a move on you, Spot would beat me up." The other two laughed. "But honestly," David continued," I do like you, only . . . "

"Only?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I don't know how to say this," he blushed, then rushed on. "You're way too much for me. I could never keep up with you." He spread his hands shyly. "You two are perfect for each other."

"He's right," Race confirmed. "He's the only one that ya ever listen to an' can keep ya from runnin wild, an' you'se the only one that ain't scared ta talk back ta him."

She sat quietly for several minutes, thinking. Eventually she stood, adjusting her cap on her head. She grinned at her two companions and hopped off the steps.

"I'll be back," she said, and started away.

"Where are you going?" David asked.

She gave one of her trademark eyerolls.

"Brooklyn. Whaddya think?"

Race jumped up and went to join her.

"Be dark soon," he said. "I'll walk with ya."

David smiled as he watched them go, sure that Pocket would return in the morning in good spirits, hopefully with Spot by her side. He was glad that he'd been able to help convince her to try to work things out.


	21. In Brooklyn

**Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine**.

The Lodging House was even noisier than usual when they reached Brooklyn, Pocket and Racetrack could hear the drunken shouts and laughter from outside. She banged on the door until one of the older boys poked his head out.

"What happened to you?" he asked, nodding at her bandaged shoulder.

"Just a disagreement," she told him. "Ya gonna let me in, Seb?"

He didn't move from eh doorway, and Pocket couldn't see around him to look for Spot.

"Whatcha want?" the stocky newsie questioned.

"Gotta talk to him."

"He ain't been in the best of moods since he got back," Seb said, eyeing her suspiciously. "Got any idea why?"

"Why dontcha ask him?" she countered.

"Already did." The Brooklyn boy glared at Racetrack. "Hoid about Kelly," he commented. "Figured that's what was buggin him. But Two-Bit asked where you was and that didn't make him happy. Knew ya was hoit, thought maybe that was it, but I can see ya ain't too bad off, so maybe it's somethin else. I'm bettin ya know somethin."

"It's possible," she answered flatly. "But I ain't discussin it with you."

"Yeah, but I ain't so sure ya wanna come in now, with him mad as he is."

Pocket gave an impatient snort. "Ya gettin on my noives Seb. Now let me in before ya make _me _ angry."

Head tilted, he seemed to be undecided. "Well I can't be sure he wants ta talk. Here," he snagged a beer from a passing newsie and handed it to her. "You two can wait there and I'll go tell him you'se here. If he wants ta see ya, I'll let ya come in."

Seb tried to close the door but Pocket was quicker. She slid past him and pushed her way into the lodging house. Racetrack took advantage of the Brooklynite's surprise to duck in also. Pocket stopped made her way through the crowded tables, eyes roaming the room. Race looked around too, but he didn't see Spot anywhere. A soft gasp from Pocket caught his attention. She stood at the far side of the room, eyes wide.

He followed her gaze to where the Brooklyn leader was coming down the stairs, a simpering blonde draped all over him. Spot hadn't noticed Pocket yet, and she took a step to the side, watching him. Shirtless, with his pants half unbuttoned and his suspenders hanging at his sides, he raised his hand to smooth his tousled hair. Pocket stood frozen as the two reached the bottom. Her good hand tightened around the neck of the beer bottle she held.

Spot whispered something the girl, his mouth next to her ear. She nodded and planted a kiss on his cheek before prancing over to a group of giggling girls, a smug smile on her pointy face.

SMASH!

Glass and beer flew everywhere as the bottle splintered against the wall above Spot's head. He jerked his head around, looking for the source of the attack. The entire room fell silent as he locked eyes with Pocket.

Pocket said nothing, just stared at him for a long, tense moment. He stared silently back. She turned to look at the blonde, and took a half step forward, then stopped. She spun on her heel and walked out without a backward glance.

The sound of the door slamming made Spot jump. He staggered after her, wobbling drunkenly as someone stepped in front of him. A fist crashed into his face, knocking him to the ground. Immediately his newsies rushed forward.

Spot shook his head to clear it, he knew before he looked up who had thrown the punch. His boys had Racetrack by the arms. One of the boys raised his hand, ready to soak the little upstart who dared to attack the king.

"Don't."

They all froze.

"Let him go," Spot said.

Confused, they turned to stare at their leader, who sat slumped on the floor, elbows braced on his knees. He rubbed his face tiredly and looked up at Race.

The scrappy Italian shrugged off the arms that held him. Spot started to speak but Racetrack shook his head and walked away. At the door, he turned, his face troubled as he struggled with some internal battle. Finally he seemed to reach a decision, and he looked over at his Spot.

For once, the Brooklyn leader couldn't hold his stare. Lowering his head, he hid from the scorn he saw in his friend's eyes. Spot flinched when he heard Racetrack spit on the floor, but didn't react to the deliberate insult. He didn't look up until he heard the door slam for the second time that night.


	22. I nevah woulda believed it

Pocket was silent the whole way back to Manhattan. A couple of times, Racetrack tried to talk to her but she just shook her head. He saw how hard she was fighting to keep calm and he left her alone.

Blink and Skittery were sitting outside the Lodging House when Pocket and Race walked up; Pocket brushed past them without a word. They turned questioning eyes to Racetrack.

"What happened?" Blink asked, worried by his friends expression.

Race paced back and forth, swearing.

"Went ovah the Bridge, so's she could talk ta Spot," he told them. "When we got there, we see Spot comin outta his room half dressed with some tart hangin all ovah him, kissin him."

"_Bastard_," Skittery swore.

"Exactly."

"What'd Pocket do ta the goil?" Blink asked.

"Nothin," Race shook his head. "She threw a bottle at the wall and it busted all ovah Spot, but then she just walked out."

"What about Spot?" Skittery wanted to know. "What'd he do?"

"Tried ta go afta her."

"Whaddya mean, he tried?" Skittery pressed.

Racetrack smirked. "I decked him."

Both newsies stared at him, jaws gaping.

"You hit Spot Conlon?" Skittery asked, sure he hadn't heard correctly.

Race nodded.

"In Brooklyn?" Blink put in. Race nodded again.

"With all his boys around?" Skitts looked doubtful.

"Yup."

"Jesus, Race," Blink muttered. "Is this your ghost we'se talkin with?"

"Nah," Race laughed humorlessly. "Weirdest thing. They grabbed me, but he made 'em let me go."

Skitts whistled softly. "You'se one lucky kid, Race."

"No kiddin."

A noise nearby made them look up. All three of them tensed, on the alert.

"Who's that?" Blink called out.

A shuffling noise, then three figures emerged from the dark. Race recognized them as being from Brooklyn, and wondered if Spot had sent them after him.

"Whatcha doin sneakin around Manhattan?" Blink spoke accusingly. "Shouldn't ya be back ovah in Brooky?"

"Hell, fellas," the tallest of them spoke up. "We ain't here for no trouble, just makin' sure Pocket made it back."

"Why," Skittery questioned, suspicious.

"Spot told us to."

"Lemme get this straight," Race said slowly. "Spot told ya to follow us back here, make sure Pocket made it home?"

"Sure," the Brooky shrugged. "Just like we always do."

Nodding thoughtfully, Racetrack tucked that bit of information away to think on later.

Blink spoke up again. "Yeah, well she's here. So ya can run along back across the bridge where ya belong. She's with us now."

"Right," Skittery added. "An' tell Conlon ta keep his ass outta Manhattan. Don't come lookin for her."

The three outsiders shot them dirty looks but kept quiet, melting back into the shadows.

"Shit," Blink grumbled. "Think he'll come around, tamarra?"

"I hope not," said Skitts.

Racetrack sighed and headed inside.

"I'm gonna go check on Pocket."

He found her on the roof, perched on the edge with her legs dangling over the side. Easing himself down next to her, Race lit a cigarette and handed it to her. She took it wordlessly and he saw that her hand was shaking.

He lit a cigarette for himself, and the two of them sat quietly, staring out at the darkened buildings. Every so often, she would gasp softly, as though holding back tears. Race tried not to push her, tried to wait until she was ready to talk, but he couldn't take the silence any more.

"I'm sorry," he told her softly.

"No big deal." She almost pulled off a careless shrug. "He was a pain in the ass anyways."

"Yeah," he nodded.

"Kinda irritatin' if ya think about it," she went on.

"Yeah."

"Thinks he knows everything," she complained.

"Thinks he's better then the rest of us," Race offered.

"And bossy." Pocket was warming to the subject.

"Stubborn."

"Cocky."

"Salty."

"Jealous."

"Sneaky."

"Ruthless. An' selfish, an' grumpy, an', an' . . ." she faltered. "An' smart, an' brave, an' funny, an' fair, an' strong, an' oh God, Race." Her voice broke.

She hid her face in her hand, shoulders shaking.

"I nevah woulda believed it," she whispered, "if I hadn't seen it with me own eyes. I nevah woulda believed ya if ya told me. No matter what, I always trusted him."

She lifted her head, her face streaked with tears.

"But I saw him, Race," she choked. "I saw him, hair all messed up, not hardly wearin anythin. Lettin that . . . whore . . . slither all ovah him. An' whisperin in her ear. She kissed him, Race! An' then struts around like she's some kind of special." She took a deep breath, then sobbed helplessly, "He looked right at me like it didn't even mattah!"

He pulled her into a hug. She buried her face in his shoulder, silently weeping. Racetrack rocked her gently, like a baby, humming softly, tunelessly. He didn't know how long they sat there until finally she seemed to run out of tears.

Pocket needed help to get back inside, her limbs were heavy with exhaustion and she could barely hold her head up. She collapsed weakly on her bunk, curling into her pillow. Race sat on the edge of the bed, patting her back until she fell asleep.

Even after her shuddering sobs subsided into the deep, even breath of sleep he sat there. Confusion furrowed his brow as he puzzled over what had happened. Back in Brooklyn, his initial shock had been pushed aside by anger and a brotherly protectiveness. Now, in the dark quiet of the lodging house, he was only sad.

_It don't fit,_ he thought. Like Pocket, Race found it hard to believe what Spot had done. They both knew that Spot took girls out because people expect the leader of Brooklyn to be a ladies man. Racetrack had always thought that those girls were just for show, and Pocket had always trusted Spot. But as hard as it was to accept, Race couldn't deny what he'd seen. Even so, a tiny niggling doubt poked at the corner of his mind.

He replayed it over and over in his head, noticing things that hadn't registered the first time. Things like the look on Spot's face as he walked down the stairs. He'd hidden it well, but Race didn't miss the irritation that thinned his lips. Things like the way the girl had clung to Spot, rubbing against him, but Spot hadn't had a hand on her.

Racetrack remembered other things too. Like the way Spot had turned his head when she kissed him, so she kissed his cheek instead of his mouth. And the way he had stumbled when he tried to walk, and the smell of whiskey that clung to him. Many, many times had Race seen Spot drunk, but he'd never had that glazed, vacant look before.

Mostly, Race remembered the brief flash of pain and desperation in Spot's eyes when Pocket walked out. If he didn't know better, Race would say that the Brooklyn leader was about to cry.

_It don't fit,_ he thought again. It just didn't add up. Racetrack didn't think that Spot was innocent, not exactly, but he was getting the impression that there may be more to the story.

A soft sniffle drew his attention back to Pocket. She was crying again, in her sleep, tears leaking swiftly from her tightly closed eyes. Race realized then that he'd never seen her cry. Not once in the five years he'd known her through countless brawls and streetfights. Not once. Not until tonight.

Suddenly he didn't care about the look on Spot's face or his drunken stupor. It didn't matter that the sleazy blonde's attention may have been unwanted. Racetrack Higgins couldn't give a damn if Spot had messed with that girl or not, because whatever happened, it made Pocket cry. And that was enough to make him hate his former friend in Brooklyn.


	23. Return

**Hello all! Thanks to all my fabulous reviewers. Thanks especially for all the grammar/punctuation tips. I am the worlds worst typist, and I usually end up typing in the wee hours of the morning, but I will keep working on it. I think I have found someone to proofread my ramblings, so if there are any mistakes in this chapter . . . Blame her! (hee hee) To answer a couple of questions:**

**Yes, I do plan on giving more background on the characters. There are just a few chapters left of this story, and I have already started on the sequel. I also have some one-shot pre-strike stories that I will post about when Pocket and Spot met, when they found out she was a girl, how Spot gained control of Brooklyn, and Pockets friendship with Race and Blink. So for those of you who want to know more about Spot and Pocket, be patient grasshoppers. It's on its way. It's all written in my head, I just have to get it up on here. If anybody wants to come over and do my housework and go to work for me and do my homework so I have plenty of time to write, I won't stop ya! And now that I have yammered endlessly, on with the show . . . **

They were all worried about her. Despite the boys' best efforts to cheer her up, Pocket seemed to shrink over the next few days, fading into a fragile copy of the girl she'd been. She refused to speak to anyone but Slips, staring blankly at the newsies when they tried to draw her into conversation. The first two days, she didn't eat, no matter what they tempted her with. Slips won a victory on the third day by refusing his own meals until she finally choked down some of the soup that David's mother sent.

It was plain to see she was exhausted. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes dull. Nobody said anything, but they all knew she wasn't sleeping. She'd return home at the end of the day dusty and tired from walking, but she couldn't rest. Though she didn't cry again, she spent her nights in bed staring at the wall.

Each morning, she left before the others woke up and was gone all day. No one knew where she was going until Lucky stopped by one day and told them. He said that Pocket was going to the other leaders, meeting to try to convince them to keep up the strike. The Bronx leader's face was grim as he revealed that only he and his boys supported her. All the other boroughs gave her the same answer. They respected Pocket, and accepted her as an emissary, but refused to throw their lots in with the leaderless Manhattan newsies. Setting aside her pride, she argued passionately, trying to undo the damage that Jack had done, but one by one they all withdrew their support.

She always went alone and they were all unhappy about it. Blink got up early one morning and insisted on going with her, but she gave him the slip, ducking out when he went to the bathroom. Some nights it was after dark when she got home. Racetrack sat on the steps and waited for her to show up, his fears easing a little when he saw a glimpse of her Brooklyn guards in an alley. He felt better at least knowing that Pocket was protected.

On the fourth day, they were all encouraged when they woke to find her still there, until they realized she'd given up. There was no longer any need for Pocket to leave Manhattan; she'd been turned away by every single leader in New York. Now she just sat on the roof alone, quietly smoking.

She snapped out of her daze with a quickness when Jack walked into the lodging house that evening. The newsies were excited and happy with the return of their leader and in the commotion no one saw her tiptoe down the stairs. The excitement died down when Pocket came to stand in front of the prodigal son.

Jack grinned down at her and held his arms out for a hug, but her expression stopped him. His grin faded as she opened her mouth to speak. Pocket's temper was high and she yelled at him for almost ten minutes without letting him get a word in. When she finally wound down, he put a timid hand on her shoulder.

In a voice more serious than they had ever heard, Jack told her how sorry he was. He told her he'd been stupid and selfish, and he'd let everybody down. Eyes downcast, he muttered that he knew how she'd been refused by the other boroughs because of what he, Jack, had done.

Pocket said nothing when he was finished, only studied him carefully.

"Can ya give me anudda shot?" he asked her.

She looked away, and for a second they all thought she was going to say no. Then she rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated breath.

"Fine," she agreed grudgingly. "Just do me a favah, Kelly?"

"Sure, anythin," he nodded eagerly.

"Try ta keep ya head outta ya ass this time," she ordered.

Racetrack laughed joyously and bounded over to pull her into a crushing hug. The others quickly joined in, and soon she disappeared in the center of the mob of newsboys. She elbowed and shoved her way free, shooting them a disgruntled look.

"What the hell was that for?" she snapped.

Race grinned. "Just glad you'se back Pocket. We missed ya."


	24. Carryin the bannah to Brooklyn

**This is a loooooong chapter, but it couldn't be broken up. It took me forever to write this, because I couldn't get it to come out right. I hope you guys like it, you're finally getting Spot's side of the story. Review please. Schnell! Rapido! Now! Only a few more chapters until the end . . . and then on to the sequel!**

**Disclaimer: Ninguno de esto es el mio. Es todo el Disney.**

One lonely ray of light shone through the grime-coated window of the Brooklyn lodging house. Its light was weak and wavering, but it was enough to wake Spot Conlon. With a groan, he sat up in bed, glaring angrily at the insolent sunbeam that dared to disturb his sleep. Spot really, really wanted to sleep.

In the days since Pocket had walked out, sleep had become his only friend. Sleep meant he didn't have to think about the look on her face when she'd seen him, the searing pain that had darkened her green eyes to near blackness. Sleep meant he didn't have to torture himself imagining her in Manhattan on the arm of someone else, moving on, without him. Sleep meant respite from the memories that haunted him; memories of Pocket when they first met, hiding behind her boyish disguise. Memories of Pocket yelling headlines on the corner, jingling coins at the end of a good selling day, laughing as she beat him at cards. Sleep meant escape from the poignant images of their times alone together; waking up next to her, the taste of her on his lips.

Spot didn't want to think of those things because they made the ache in his chest unbearable. He wanted to forget about the times they'd shared together. Every memory brought with it the reminder that he hadn't just lost his girl - he'd lost his best friend. He missed her quiet understanding, her advice, her laughter.

At first, Spot had tried to distract himself with Brooklyn matters, tried to bury himself in his duties as leader. But even Brooklyn had lost its appeal, and he couldn't make himself care about the happenings in his city. Instead he'd retreated into himself, listening with less than half an ear to Fiver's daily updates. The only time Spot showed signs of life was at night, when Pocket's guards returned to Brooklyn. He listened greedily to their reports, selfishly hoarding every tiny tidbit of information. News of Pocket was as painful as it was precious, but it was all he had left to feel close to her. Hurt and ashamed, he listened to stories of her cold reception by the other newsies, and he longed to go to her. Pride and fear prevented him from rushing to her side, he couldn't risk the rejection he was sure to face.

And so Spot sat alone in his loft. Each day he spent in much the same manner as the day before, alternately sitting at the window or sprawled across his bed, staring sightlessly ahead. On this morning, as on others, he dragged himself out of bed where the scent of Pocket still clung to his sheets. He moved listlessly to the window, pressing his forehead against the dirty glass.

Spot heard the footsteps on the stairs but didn't turn, his gaze fixed on some distant horizon. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and stopped, but still he didn't look around.

"We needs ta talk, Conlon."

The voice jolted him from his reverie; Spot jerked around to face his visitor. Racetrack stood in the doorway, hands stuffed casually in his pockets, chin lifted in defiance. The Manhattaner shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. Coming to Brooklyn had been a bold move considering what transpired on his last visit. Blink and Skittery had insisted on joining him, but Fiver made them wait outside under the watchful eyes of the Brooklyn boys. Racetrack came to face Spot alone, and he now eyed the Brooklyn leader carefully, wary of retribution.

But none came. Spot didn't move from the window, only glanced briefly at Race before turning back to his silent watch over the city. The ache in his chest intensified as he suddenly realized that it wasn't just Pocket he'd lost. Spot had lost Racetrack too, the only other real friend he had besides Pocket. The only other person he could ever relax around, the only other person who saw him as Spot, just Spot, not Spot the King of Brooklyn.

Unnerved by the silence, Race looked nervously at Fiver, but Spot's lieutenant just shrugged. Before coming inside, Fiver had pulled Racetrack aside. Away from the ears of his friends and the watchful Brooky's, Race had listened as Fiver told him of Spot's recent behavior. How he'd torn apart his room in a fit of rage the morning after Pocket left. How he'd holed up in the loft in the days that followed, eating little and speaking less. Race had been skeptical of such a drastic change in the Brooklyn leader, but now the proof was right in front of him. Spot was broken, just like Pocket, and the big-hearted Italian wished desperately for a way to ease his friends' pain. Now was not the time for such concerns, though. There were more important matters to attend to.

Fiver spoke up. "Manhattan's got somethin ya should take a look at, boss," he said, shoving Racetrack forward.

Spot didn't react as Race stumbled over. The other boy took something out of his shirt pocket, a folded piece of paper. He held it out to Spot, waiting expectantly.

Spot glanced down at the paper, then back up at Race. "What's that?" he asked, his voice flat with indifference.

"You should read it, Spot," Race answered, still holding it out to him. "It's the banner, the Newsies' Banner, thought ya might find it interestin."

"The Newsies' Banner?" Spot repeated. "Whatch talkin' 'bout, Race?"

"This is the article that Denton wrote, before. Jack and him put this paper togetha, and we've been takin' it all over the city."

"Jack?" Spot looked up, eyes lit with the first spark of interest in days. "Jack?" he said again.

Race nodded. "Jack's back. And we're finishing the strike, once and for all. Manhattan's been spreadin' the word all mornin'. Not just to the newsies, eitha. We took it to all the kids in New York, all the kids who work their asses off for pennies while their bosses sit in cushy chairs and count their money."

Ractrack watched as Spot processed his words. When he didn't answer, Race got curious.

"So ya didn't know about Jack?" he asked doubtfully. "Thought for sure one a ya boidies woulda told ya."

Spot shook his head. "Don't got no boidies in 'Hattan since Slips got hoit," he said.

"But you do have boys in Manhattan," Race said shrewdly. "I seen 'em."

Spot's shoulders slumped, his eyes once again fading to a dull, lifeless gray.

"They's not there ta look afta Manhattan. They's just there ta look afta Pocket." He winced as he said her name, looking away.

Racetrack didn't miss the telltale sheen of moisture in Spot's eyes, but he didn't say anything about it. Instead he turned to Fiver, nodding encouragingly.

"Why dontcha go check on Blink and Skitts, make they's still in one piece," he suggested. "Got some things to discuss with Spot. In private."

Fiver hesistated, looking to Spot for confirmation. The Brooklyn leader lifted his hand in a half hearted wave, gesturing weakly for Fiver to go. With a warning look at Racetrack, the second in command turned to leave.

When they were alone, Race returned his attention to his erstwhile friend. Spot was back to staring out the window, leaning heavily against the window frame as though his legs wouldn't hold him. Race watched him for a moment, unsure how to broach such a delicate subject.

It was Spot who broke the silence, the words torn from his throat when he could no longer hold back.

"How is she?" he begged.

Racetrack sighed and looked at his feet. He debated the best answer, knowing that Pocket would prefer that he keep her misery a secret. In the end he opted for honesty, unable to lie in the face of Spot's naked anguish.

"Not good," he admitted. "She's been wearin herself out, traipsin' all ovah the city, pleadin' with the othah leaders to stay with the strike. They all turned her away, and that ain't sittin well with her."

Spot waved his words aside impatiently. "I know all that," he huffed. "But how is she? Ya gotta tell me."

Racetrack forced himself to meet Spot's eyes. "How d'ya think she is? She's miserable." Race didn't bother to keep the censure out of his voice. "She ain't talkin ta nobody 'cept Slips, an' it took a fight ta get her ta eat somethin. She ain't sleepin, eitha, just lays in bed lookin' at the wall. She ain't lookin so good, Spot. Mattah o' fact, she looks an awful lot like you."

"She say anythin?" Spot asked. "About . . . me?"

Racetrack's eyes hardened at the memory of Pocket's tears. "Yeah, she did," he said bluntly. "She cried in my arms that night, Conlon, but she ain't cried since. Said she couldn't believe ya'd do somethin like that. Not when she'd always trusted ya."

Spot hung his head in shame.

"I didn't mean ta hoit her," he muttered. "I was just so mad, and hoit, when she said she didn't wanna be me goil no more." He looked at Race, eyes pleading for understanding. "Came back to Brooklyn an' started drinkin. Kept tellin' myself she'd change her mind, but it didn't do no good." He stopped, turning again to the window.

"Me boys started drinkin too," he continued tonelessly, in the manner of one discussing the weather. "'Fore long da whole place was fulla people. Dis goil kept followin me, tryin' ta climb in me lap whiles I was playin cards. But I kept pushin her away. I _did_," he insisted at Race's disbelieving snort.

"She didn't get it, thought," Spot resumed his story, the words coming faster now. "Finally I just got up. Didn't wanna be there no more. Wanted ta go see Pocket, but I was too damn drunk ta make it very far. Decided ta get some sleep an' go to Manhattan in da morning. On da way upstairs I hoid some a me boys talkin, didn't know I was listenin."

He paused again, remembering. "Dey was sayin' how funny it was ta see da King a' Brooklyn all torn up ovah a goil. Said I was pushin' that othah goil away cuz I lost my touch." He grimaced. "Dat just pissed me off more. Went upstairs and laid down. Afta a while, dat goil came up afta me. Woke me up, she did, climbin inta me bed. I was sleepin, dat's why I didn't have no clothes on," he informed Racetrack. "She was all ovah me, kissin on me. All I could think of was she didn't taste nothin like Pocket an' her breath was makin' me sick ta me stomach. Couldn't get her offa me, an' I didn't wanna be alone with her, so I told her I wanted ta go back to tha party. Told her I wanted ta show off da prettiest goil in Brooklyn."

He laughed mirthlessly. "She loved that. Jumped up all gigglin. So we came downstairs, an' that's when ya showed up." Spot looked at Race, his face serious.

"I shouldn'ta let her hang onta me, an' I shouldn't a let her kiss me," he admitted. "Just kept thinkin' about how Pocket didn't want me no more, an' how da boys said I lost me touch. Figured I'd show 'em I could still get any goil I wanted."

A long moment passed as Spot's words hung in the air. Spot watched anxiously as Race mulled over everything.

"I didn't do nothin, Race. I know I shoulda stopped her, I know I fucked up, but I didn't do nothin' like ya think I did. Ya gotta believe me," he said desperately.

Racetrack did believe him, and he said as much, but he couldn't give Spot the absolution he craved. All he could do was lay a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I ain't the one ya gotta say all this to," he said reluctantly. "It don't mattah what I think."

Spot nodded hopelessly and shuffled over to sit on the bed, shoulders bowed under the weight of his sadness. Race hesitated, then went to sit on the nightstand. The two boys sat in silence, each caught up in thoughts of a certain dark haired newsgirl. The pain on Spot's face was a testament to the truth of his words, and Race accepted his explanation. In the back of his mind, the little gambler had never been able to reconcile what he thought he'd seen with the Spot he knew. Now that he knew Spot's side of the story, he could admit that the whole thing was a misunderstanding. It wouldn't be easy to make Pocket listen, but when she was ready, Race knew he had to try.

With a heavy sigh, Race held out the crumpled paper. This time Spot took it, and Race watched as his eyes flew over the page. When he finished reading, he looked up.

"So Jack's back?" he questioned. "How'd that happen?"

Race grinned. "Yeah, he's back. Found the Delancey's beatin' on Davey in an alley, afta he stopped them from messin' with Sarah and Les. Dey was roughin 'im up pretty good when Cowboy showed up an' soaked 'em. He came back an' told us he couldn't do it, couldn't be a scab, an' then we came up with this plan for the strike."

"An' everybody just took him back, no questions?" Spot asked dubiously.

"Not everybody," Race told him, smirking when Spot raised a questioning brow. "Pocket let him have it but good," he chuckled. "Nevah hoid her yell so much without takin' a breath. Put 'im in his place, she did. Let 'im know just what she thought about him runnin off while the rest of us tried to pick up the pieces. Told 'im he didn't desoive to come back afta she had to go beg the otha newsies to support us. Said nobody trusted her cuz he turned traitor." Racetrack smiled happily at the memory of Pocket's furious tirade.

"So . . .?" Spot pushed.

"So he tells her he's sorry, an' that he knows what he did, an' he knows if it wasn't for her we woulda fallen apart. Asked her ta give 'im anotha shot. She told him she would as long as he kept his head outta his ass."

A short laugh escaped Spot's lips, the first real laughter in days. "That's me goil," he said admiringly. "Nevah did hold back, did she?"

His face sobered again, settling into determined lines as he pushed thoughts of Pocket aside. Talking about her did seem to push him towards a decision, though, and he stood, nodding decisively.

"Ya need Brooklyn." It was a statement, not a question.

Racetrack nodded. "We sent word out ta all the othas, like I said. But we still need ya, Spot. So I'se hear ta ask ya again, Spot. You with us?"

"I'se with ya," Spot assured him. "Brooklyn is behind ya."

He grabbed his cane and made for the stairs, intending to gather his troops, but Racetrack stopped him.

"Don't do this for Pocket," he warned. "If you'se with us, then fine. God knows we need ya. But if ya come, don't come for Pocket. Ya did that last time. This ain't about her, it's about alla us, an' if you'se in, it's gotta be because ya really believe it. Ya gotta believe we can win."

Racetrack went to the stairs, turning at the last minute to look at Spot. "Ya know, Conlon, it's ya ego got ya inta this mess. Foist ya told her she had ta obey ya cuz she's ya goil. Then ya let ya pride make ya stupid. Ya wouldn'ta looked twice at that goil if ya wasn't so worried 'bout what ya boys was thinking."

He paused, holding Spot's gaze, his next words showing an insight beyond his years. "You'se the King a Brooklyn, an' it's right that's important to ya. But if ya ain't careful, Spot, Brooklyn's gonna be all ya got left. An' Brooklyn's grand, but she's only yours as long as ya hang onta her. Then ya ain't gonna be left with nothin."

Having said his piece, Race headed downstairs without waiting for a response, leaving Spot stunned in the middle of the room. He hoped Spot would listen, hoped his words would sink in past the other boys stubborn defenses. And he hoped he hadn't just ruined everything, but he couldn't regret speaking his mind. Spot and Pocket were his friends, both of them, and he hated the fierce pride that was keeping them apart.

No sound came from the loft as Racetrack made his way through the bunkroom. Heart heavy, he put his hand on the door, steeling himself to face Blink and Skittery and tell them he'd failed.

"Race."

The sound of his name made him turn, he looked up to see Spot leaning over the stair rail. The Brooklyn leader's face was set in it's familiar cold mask, but his voice throbbed with sincerity.

"I ain't nothing without her, Race," Spot said. "She's everythin' ta me, everythin I've wanted for the last five years, an' I ain't givin her up."

He clenched his jaw, his posture emanating determination. Racetrack swallowed his disappointment at Spot's declaration. Spot had always been devoted to Brooklyn, he _was _ Brooklyn, and that single-mindedness had served him well. Since his rise to power, he'd served Brooklyn with unbending loyalty, giving everything he had to the city he loved so much. Racetrack knew that, but he'd hoped to see the day when Brooklyn came second.

"Brooklyn ain't nothin," Spot said softly, drawing a shocked gasp from Racetrack. "Not without Pocket. I'd give it up tamarra if it meant she'd come back."


	25. Hollow Victory

"So when's the others comin', Kid?" Mush asked plaintively.

The Manhattan newsies milled about the foot of Horace Greeley's statue. They'd distributed the Newsies Banner to working children all over New York—to stable boys, factory kids, bike messengers, and seamstresses. They'd spread the word, but now it seemed they were left to finish the fight alone.

Jack stood, his face set in grim lines. "They ain't comin'," he said firmly. " There ain't gonna be nobody but us."

Mush dropped his head to stare at the ground.

"He'll come," Pocket spoke quiet assurance. "They'll all come."

David wished he could share in her confidence. He draped his arm across his sister's shoulder. She leaned into him, offering her support. The newsies huddled together, all hope lost. It was useless to wait, no one was coming.

Suddenly, in the distance, they heard the rumble of voices. From her perch atop the statue, Pocket gave a glad cry. Blink looked up, his eye widening in surprise. He clutched Racetrack's shoulder, pointing behind him, the other boy's mouth gaped open as he shoved frantically at Blink, pointing in the other direction.

The small group watched in amazement as the noise came closer. Children flooded the streets, pouring in from every direction, causing cyclists and pedestrians to hurry out of their way. More and more kept coming and converging on the statue, chanting and singing.

"Brooklyn!"

The cry came from across the street as Spot and his boys rounded the corner. Pocket watched from her vantage point, her eyes fixed on Spot. The Brooklyn leader was a sight to behold, swinging his cane, eyes narrowed, his face lit with the fire of battle. The crowd parted before him, clearing a path for the mighty King of Brooklyn and his conquering army. Every instinct she had told Pocket to run to him, to leap into his arms, but she held herself back. Instead she hopped down, spitting into her palm to shake hands with Lucky, who'd arrived with his Bronx newsies.

Jack lifted Les onto his shoulders, and seeing this, Pocket pulled Lucky down so she too could see above the crowd. Balanced on his broad shoulders, she couldn't help but look again to Spot. His pale blue gaze zeroed in on her, alight with eagerness and something else, something she couldn't name. Pocket forced herself to look away, to survey the crowd. Her heart caught in her chest at the scene before her. All around her, the crowd pressed closer, waving signs and yelling. "Stable boys on strike." "Girls want rights too!" She read the crude signs, overcome with emotion. In the throng she recognized the faces of some of the Queens and Harlem newsies, even some from outside the five boroughs, from Staten Island, and Long Island, too. Every single child laborer in New York City had descended on the office of Joseph Pulitizer, determined to be heard.

Jack pushed his way to the forefront, David beside him, both awestruck at the outpouring of support. Racetrack sidled up next to them. " Deah me," he quipped, "What have we heah?" He motioned to the businessman making his way down the steps.

Pocket wanted to follow Jack into the building, but she was too far away. All she could do was nod encouragingly at David as the two disappeared inside. The next few minutes passed like hours for the newsies gathered around the gates. Filled with nervous energy, Spot bounced on his toes, craning his neck for a glimpse of the action.

When Jack and David finally emerged, their faces were serious, and Pocket's heart sank. Surely they would look happier if the meeting had been successful. Ushered through the gates by policemen, the two boys were swarmed by impatient newsies clamoring for news. Jack ignored their impatient questions, leaning down to whisper to Les. He straightened, hoisting the small boy back onto his shoulders, and the two of them turned to face the crowd.

After a short, painful moment of suspense, they raised their arms, fists clenched in a symbol of victory.

"We beat 'em!" Jack cried.

Instantly a deafening shout erupted from the gathered masses. Pocket was beside herself, jumping up and down, hugging everyone in sight. Suddenly she found herself wrapped tight in familiar arms. Pulling back, she looked nervously up at Spot.

"Pocket," he started, but she shook her head and rushed off, bounding into Lucky and Twitchy's waiting embrace.

Chaos reigned in the aftermath of the victory as well-wishers crowded into the distribution yard. Pocket found herself swept away by Fiver and some of the other Brooky's, who all greeted her enthusiastically and pulled her into a celebratory dance. Her hat had long since gotten lost in the melee, and her dark curls swung freely as she laughed and in happy circles. She felt eyes on her and looked up to find Spot watching her with a hungry expression. Once again, she avoided his gaze, searching the crowd for Racetrack.

The smile fell from her lips as she caught sight of the wagon approaching.

"Jack!" she yelled, pushing her way toward him. "Cheese it, it's the bulls!"

She gained the steps as the boys took up her warning, elbowing people aside as she fought to reach Jack. Her only thought was to give him time to get away. Strong arms grabbed her and held her back as she desperately tried to put herself between Jack and the advancing officers. She glared up at Spot, but he refused to let go of her.

Denton hurried up the steps just as she as she was about to haul off and punch Spot. The reporter's words gave her pause.

"You don't have to run anymore, Jack," he said softly. "Not from the likes of him."

They all watched as the wagon door opened to release several of the boys from the refuge. Ten-Pin looked to be the last one out, but he turned back. Pocket tore free of Spot's grasp as Crutchy thumped his way out of the wagon. When he shut the door on a furious Snyder, she threw herself at him, nearly toppling him with her enthusiasm. He hugged her tightly, leaning on her as they shoved their way back to Jack.

Pocket found her eyes drawn once more to Spot as Crutchy chattered happily to Jack. Aware of her attention, he straightened and turned to face her. She drank in his regal posture, his cocky stance, filling her eyes with the sight of his firm jaw and proud chin. Spot stared back at her, unblinking, his eyes shining.

Beside her, Crutchy pointed, drawing her focus away from Spot. She followed the direction of his finger to a second carriage where a distinguished older gentlemen stood shaking hands with the eager newsies. Her jaw dropped as she caught the end of Crutchy's sentence.

" . . . . . . him, Teddy Roosevelt."

Pocket watched in amazement as Jack strode over to speak with the governor. She crowed closer just in time to hear Jack ask for a ride to the train yards.

As the tall Manhattaner climbed into the carriage, Pocket struggled to push down her disappointment. She wanted to be happy for her friend, who for so long had longed to escape the city, but she couldn't help but feel betrayed again.

Pocket wasn't the only one affected by his departure. In the midst of the celebration, the Manhattan newsies shuffled listlessly up to the distribution window. Poor little Les looked lost, David bereft, and Sarah brushed away tears., the Manhattan newsies shuffled listlessly up to the distribution window. Poor little Les looked lost, David bereft, and Sarah brushed away tears.

Pocket drew away from the saddened newsies, retreating by herself as the cheering crowd followed the carriage that bore Jack away from them. She slumped against the wall, searching for a cigarette.

Her head jerked up when a hand appeared in front of her face, holding a lit cigarette. She took it grudgingly, forcing herself to look at Spot.

"Whatcha gonna do now?" he asked casually.

She shrugged. "Dunno."

"Ya could come back ta Brooklyn," he offered quietly.

"No." She shook her head.

He wisely chose not to argue, only breathed a heavy sigh.

"Manhattan's gonna need a leadah," he suggested.

Again, she shook her head. "Nah," she answered sadly. "I'se seen what bein' a leadah can do to ya."

He flinched at the insult, ducking away from her pointed look. He started to say something but stopped. He knew there was no use in arguing.

Spot gave a curt nod, lifting his eyes to give her a searching look before turning away. She watched him melt into the crowd. Sighing, she threw down her cigarette and went to join her friends at the window. She halfheartedly bought twenty papes, more to go along with the boys than out of any real desire to sell. Racetrack walked up and draped a comforting arm around her. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder, eyes closed.

"C'mon," he coaxed, "Let's go sell a few papes an' find a card game. See if we can't lose some money now we gots it."

Her answer was drowned out by renewed cheering, and they both looked up to see the governor's carriage rounding the corner. Jack stood up, shaking hands with Roosevelt. Pocket and Race hurried closer as their friend hopped down and made a beeline for Sarah. Catcalls and whistles went up from the newsies as he pulled her close for a passionate kiss.

Pocket watched wistfully from the edge of the crowd as Jack and Sarah embraced. Deep down she was glad for them, but she couldn't stop wishing for her own happy ending.

Another cheer erupted and Pocket turned to see the carriage pulling away once more. Roosevelt continued to accept handshakes and thanks from the following crowd. Inside the carriage, Spot Conlon sat regally, waving elegantly at the throng.

Pocket watched with a lump in her throat as the King of Brooklyn rode out of sight, taking her heart with him.


	26. Intervention

**Sorry it's been so long! I have it all written, just can't find the time to type! Anyway, here is the next chapter, hopefully I will be able to post another chapter tonite to make up for my long absence Sequel on the way too and keep an eye out for short pre-strike background stories! **

**Disclaimer: Duh.**

A holiday atmosphere reigned in Manhattan for the rest of the day. The Brooklyn newsies stayed behind when Spot rode off into the sunset, and they joined their Manhattan counterparts in raucous celebration back at the lodging house. A handful of the Bronx and Queens boys hung around too, drawn by the lure of the seamstresses Blink persuaded to attend. The older boys played cards and drank beer and generally made fools of themselves in an effort to impress the group of girls. For their part, the girls just giggled and smiled, sighing to each other over Jack Kelly, who was obviously taken, and speculating about the dashing Spot Conlon.

Pocket wasn't in the mood for a party, she soon grew bored of drinking and cards. Feeling obligated to join the festivities, she relaxed in a corner listening to a couple of girls gossip about Spot's good looks.

"He's _so_ gorgeous," one of them sighed.

"I know!" her friend agreed. "So mysterious. What I wouldn't give for a date with him."

Pocket surged out of her seat, on her feet and hell-bent on snatching them both by the hair, but she checked herself.

"He's _my _man."

The words were on the tip of the tongue when she realized they were no longer true. She had to content herself with glaring evilly at the prattling twits before sneaking upstairs.

She went immediately to Slips' bedside where she proceed to tell him, again, how they'd won the strike. The little boy peppered her with questions that she answered patiently in an attempt to distract herself from thoughts of Spot.

They were interrupted by Racetrack and Fiver entering the bunkroom. The Brooklynite greeted Slips warmly, ruffling his hair.

"Ya did good kid," he pronounced. "I'se real proud of ya."

Slips glowed with the praise, grinning happily at Pocket. Fiver turned to her, holding out his hand.

"Proud of ya too Pocket," he told her.

She nodded her thanks and spit on her palm to shake his hand, all the while staring up at him curiously.

"Ya come up 'specially ta tell me that, or ya got somethin else on ya mind?" she asked shrewdly.

Fiver chuckled. "Ya too damn smart, that's what," he teased. "Yeah, I wanna talk ta ya."

"Bout Spot?" she guessed. She made a face at his nod. "Nothin doin," she said firmly.

Racetrack spoke up. "I think ya prob'ly wanna hear this, Pocket," he advised. "Can't hoit ta listen, can it?"

Pocket glared at him, including Fiver in her dark look as well. She was all set to refuse despite the determination she saw in both boys' faces, but she relaxed when Slips snuck his small hand into hers with a gentle squeeze.

With a heavy sigh she rose and reluctantly followed the two older boys up to the roof. Once outside, she stood defiantly, cradling her injured arm, and waited for them to speak.

Race held out a cigarette as a peace offering, motioning her to sit down.

"Don't be like that," he scolded. "We just wanna talk ta ya. Have a seat."

With an air of exaggerated patience, Pocket dropped down onto the ledge, dangling her feet over the edge. She took the cigarette grumpily, but no longer glared at them. Fiver came to sit on one side of her, Racetrack to the other side, hemming her in.

"I ain't goin nowhere," she complained. "Ya don't gotta trap me."

"Just in case," Race laughed. "Now listen."

She gave Fiver an expectant look. He lit his own cigarette and began his story.

"Thought ya should know, Pocket, that he ain't been the same since ya left," he told her.

"Mornin' afta ya'd gone, he went kinda mad, crashin and bangin up there in his loft. Tore the place apart. Past few days, he ain't come down, not once. Just sits in his room starin out the window. He won't talk ta nobody, he ain't eatin. Scariest part is, he don't care about nothing no more. Don't' care bout Brooklyn, don't care about the boys. I been runnin things lately, and he don't even listen when I try ta tell him what's goin on." Fiver exhaled a long puff of smoke, troubled by his leader's strange behavior.

"Bout the only time he perks up," Fiver went on, "is when he gets word from the boys on how you'se doin."

Pocket raised a curious brow. "What boys," she asked sharply. 'Boidies?"

"Nah," Fiver shook his head. "Spot don't like the idea of ya wanderin around by yaself. Likes ta have a coupla fellas lookin out for ya."

"For how long?" she questioned, eyes narrowed dangerously.

"For evah," Fiver admitted. "Sent them every time ya left Brooky, just ta make sure ya made it back safe. Told 'em ta come afta ya walked outta the barracks, and evah since ya started roamin around New York he's had 'em keepin watch."

Pocket looked to Race for confirmation.

"Yeah," he nodded. "But he just wants to make sure nothin happens to ya," he rushed to explain. "It ain't that he thinks ya need watchdogs, he just can't stand the thought of ya gettin hoit."

Pocket started to argue but Fiver interrupted. "Ya shoulda seen him, Pocket, when Slips came an' told us about the Crips at the distribution center. I ain't nevah seen him so angry, when he found out ya was headin inta a trap."

"Yeah," Race agreed, then related his own story. "Afta the ralley, when we didn't know where ya was, he was frantic. Had to pull him off Davey, he was so mad that the kid lost ya. Had ta sit on him, too, ta keep him from chasin afta ya." Race grinned slightly at the memory before his face grew serious again.

"Pocket, when Lucky came in carryin ya, and we didn't know if ya was alright," he shuddered, "I ain't nevah gonna forget the look on his face."

Pocket said nothing, only stared at her hands. Then she shrugged.

"Look, I know he's protective an' I know he can't help it. I was mad at him orderin me around, but I woulda got ovah it. That's just how he is. I shouldn'ta said what I did bout not wantin ta be his goil," she admitted.

Race and Fiver looked encouraged by her confession until she spoke again.

"But that don't excuse him cozyin up with some tramp a coupla hours later. Didn't waste no time replacin me, did he?"

Now they'd reached the real issue. Fiver heard the hurt behind the bitterness in her voice and knew he had to set her straight. He respected Spot, looked up to him, and he didn't like seeing his idol hurting.

"I know it looked real bad," he said, "but ya got it all wrong."

Pocket snorted derisively. "He came out of his room half-naked with that nasty little whore rubbin all ovah him, Fiver. What is that I got wrong here? Pretty obvious what happened."

"No," Fiver argued, "ya got it all wrong."

He handed her another cigarette and lit one for himself before continuing.

"Afta Kelly turned scab, Spot came home in a foul mood, growling and snarling at everybody. The little ones was even more scared a him than usual. Disappeared for a while and came back halfway through a bottle a whiskey. When I asked him bout ya, he threw the bottle at me. He kept drinkin, an' the boys started drinkin too. Somebody brought them goils ovah, but he didn't even notice 'em. I stayed sober cause I was worried about him. Spot likes ta drink, but I ain't nevah seen him drink that much." Fiver paused for breath. " So I can tell ya for sure what happened, cuz I watched the whole time. That goil kept flirtin with him, tryin ta snuggle up to him. He just pushed her away, but she kept at him. Afta a while he stopped playin cards and went upstairs. Almost fell a coupla times he was stumblin so much. Bout an hour later, I saw her go up. Weren't up there for more than a coupla minutes before you showed up, then they came back down. He didn't touch her. I saw it. She was all ovah him, but he didn't put a hand on her."

"He _kissed_ her," Pocket insisted.

"She kissed him," Fiver corrected. "An' he turned his head away so she got his cheek insteada his mouth. I promise ya, Pocket, nothin happened."

"Why should I believe ya?" she challenged. "How do I know he didn't tell ya ta say all this?"

Fiver gave her a look. "I don't lie, Pocket. Ya should know that. An' ya know he'd nevah send me to talk ta ya. Ain't his style."

Race put his two cents in. "I believe him," he piped up. "I didn't recognize him taday, he looked so different. Like all the fight's gone outta him."

Pocket sat quietly, considering his words, and Race decided he had to tell her one more thing.

"I told him, this morning, that his ego was what started this whole mess," the Italian said softly. "An' he'd better get ovah it fast, or else Brooklyn would be all he had left."

Here he paused and looked Pocket dead in the eyes. "Know what he said?" Race didn't wait for an answer, just continued sternly. "He said you'se the only one he's wanted more than anythin for five years. He told me he'd give up Brooklyn right now if it meant ya'd come back ta him."

Those words seem to finally penetrate her defenses. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes watered. Rising, she leaned down to give both Race and Fiver a kiss on the cheek.

"I gotta think about all this," she announced. "I'se goin for a walk."


	27. the Bridge

**This chapter is short, I know. But I hope it's a good one.**

A walk was exactly what Pocket needed to clear her head. She didn't know what to think anymore. Deep down, she'd long since forgiven Spot for his high handed bossiness. She knew his attitude stemmed from a strong desire to protect her, and she knew he would never change. And if she allowed herself to admit it, she couldn't ignore the fact that his over-protectiveness, though frustrating at times, made her feel safe and cherished.

But seeing him with that girl had wounded her deeply. Based on Fivers story, and Race's comment about ego, she was starting to piece together the truth about that night. Pocket began to suspect that Spot had allowed the floozy to drape herself all over him as a salve to his bruised pride. And that was the part Pocket couldn't get past.

Without her realizing, her steps had turned toward Brooklyn, either out of habit of a need to see him. Deep in thought, she was halfway across the bridge before a voice stopped her.

"Katie."

She froze, head jerking up. Spot stood in front of her and she took a moment to look him over. Race was right, he didn't look like himself. His face was grey and tired, his eyes dull. Gone was the aura of tightly leashed power that normally surrounded him, replaced by a heavy mantle of hopelessness.

Spot studied her just as intently, noting the paleness of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes. Her clothes were limp and grimy, as though, like him, she hadn't been able to muster the energy to change.

They stood facing each other in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, both wanting to speak, both unsure where to begin.

"I'm sorry."

Pocket spoke first, surprising Spot.

"I shouldnta said that, bout not bein ya goil. I was mad at ya for tellin me what to do, an' for sayin I couldn't keep the strike goin. I didn't mean it though."

Spot's heart lightened at her admission.

"I know you'se tough," he told her. "I just hate seein ya chase afta trouble. I just want ya –"

"Safe," she finished for him. "I know. I was just mad. I'm was comin ta apologize, the othah night."

"An' ya came in ta find that bitch all ovah me," Spot bit out, his tone laced with self-recrimination.

"Yeah," she agreed softly.

"Ya gotta believe me, baby, nothin happened," he explained desperately.

"I know."

Her softly spoken words gave him hope, and he rushed to continue.

"I didn't touch her, I swear. I spent the whole night tryin ta get away from her. Only reason ya saw . . ." he hesitated, " what ya saw, wsa cuz I hoid some of me boys sayin I lost me touch."

"Ah," Pocket murmured, suspicions confirmed.

Spot was encouraged when she didn't argue or yell at him, and he closed the distance between them, reaching out to take her hand.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I nevah meant to hoit ya."

His eyes held hers, his expression hopeful.

"Can ya . . . d'ya think ya can forgive me?" he asked.

She nodded slowly. "I forgive ya."

With a joyful whoop he swept her into his arms, burying his face in her neck, inhaling her scent. For a moment he simply held her, until he noticed how she held herself stiffly in his embrace. Spot pulled away, searching her face.

"Will ya be me goil again . . . please?" he asked nervously, holding his breath as he awaited her answer.

Pocket took a long time to respond, every second pierced his heart like a spear. Finally she spoke, her voice thick with tears.

"I can't," she muttered brokenly.

"What d'ya," he swallowed around the lump in his own throat and tried again. "What d'ya mean ya can't?" he demanded.

"Spot, I don't wanna be without ya," she began.

"Then don't," he interrupted.

"But I can't go through that again," she continued, ignoring his outburst. "What's gonna happen the next time we fight? Ya gonna console yaself with a different goil every time?"

"I said I'se sorry," he insisted. "I don't wanna fight with ya anymore."

She rolled her eyes and let out a mirthless laugh.

"Spot," she said, "there's no way in hell we won't fight again. I won't be able to stand it, wonderin if you'se off with somebody else."

He could hear the finality in her words, knew it was pointless to argue. She had made her decision. Shoulders slumped in defeat, he let go of her and turned to leave. Spot turned back after a couple of steps, eyes roaming her face, memorizing every feature. He ran a shaking hand over his face, knuckling away the tears that threatened to spill from his tightly closed eyes.

"I need ya ta know, Katie," he whispered hoarsely, "that I love ya. I always have. An' I ain't gonna stop. Rememba that."

With one last lingering look he turned and walked away, leaving Pocket alone in the middle of the bridge, tears streaming down her face.

**Ooooh, poor Spot and Pocket! Next chapter is the last one . . . .**


	28. The End

**Ok, folks, this is it, the last chapter. I am kind of sad to finish this story, I will miss Pocket and Spot. Lucky for me, I have many more Pocket stories floating around my head! So thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed this story, and especially to those of you who reviewed! I hope you keep reading the rest!**

Heavy feet bore Spot through the streets of Brooklyn. He walked for hours; with all his boys still in Manhattan, he couldn't face going home to the empty lodging house. Near midnight, exhaustion forced him to accept that no amount of walking would fill the emptiness in his chest.

On a weary sigh, Spot let himself into the darkened barracks, his footsteps echoing in the stillness of the bunkroom. He dragged himself slowly up the stairs to his loft, already dreading the cold emptiness of his bed. At the top of the steps he froze, blinking in shock.

A pale shaft of moonlight shone into the loft, spotlighting the sleeping figure in his bed. Spot hurried forward, standing at the side of the bed to stare down at her. He rubbed his eyes quickly, not believing she was real.

A tiny spark of hope lit deep inside him as he gazed down at her. Greedy eyes roamed over her pale skin and soft lips, her tumbled curls. She rested peacefully, her breathing deep and even.

Moving quietly so as not to disturb her, he leaned his cane against the wall. He tossed his hat on the table, emptied his pockets, and considered his next move. Spot was of two minds on how he should proceed. Part of him wanted nothing more than to slip silently into the bed without waking her, longing for one last night with her in his arms. Another part of him, buoyed by the hope her presence inspired, demanded that he wake her and try one more time to change her mind.

She was here, in his bed. That had to be a good sign, right?

In the end, he decided to try both options. Quickly he pulled off his boots and slid his suspenders off his shoulders. Carefully, trying not to startle her, he lifted the blanket and lay awkwardly next to her. The heat from her body soothed him, but the tamped down the urge to pull her closer. Instead he reached out a trembling hand to stroke her cheek. The feather soft touch of his fingers woke her, and she sat up with a start. Pocket's first instinct was to fight, her fist was up even before she opened her eyes. He caught her hand before she could strike him, whispering her name.

Her eyes opened, cloudy pools of green in the dimness. He expected her to pull away but she sat frozen, hand still caught in his grip. Spot released her immediately, watching as she flopped back against the pillow. The tiny, fledgling spark of hope flamed brighter when she made no move to leave, only lay there staring up at him.

"You're back," she said softly.

"You're here," he answered, a question in his voice.

She nodded slowly, reaching up to cup his cheek.

"I nevah could stay mad at ya," she chuckled.

Spot wanted to speak, to beg her forgiveness, but she pulled him down to her, stopping his words with a kiss. Relief washed over him at the feel of her lips against his, he gratefully opened his mouth to hers, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Gently, almost shyly they kissed, exploring, hesitantly seeking. Just the barest touch made Spot shiver with need and he made himself pull away before things got out of hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely, leaning his forward against hers.

Tenderly Pocket lifted a hand to smooth the hair out of his eyes. She shook her head sadly.

"No," she told him. "_I'm_ sorry."

"For what?"

"I shouldn'ta run off like that," she said seriously. "I shoulda talked ta ya, asked ya what happened, insteada just thinkin the worst." She paused, eyes closeing in remembered pain. "I just couldn't stand seeing her . . ."

"I nevah wanted her," he put in anxiously.

"I know. Ya'd nevah do nothin like that. I know that. I shoulda trusted ya. I nevah shoulda waited so long ta talk ta ya," she berated herself.

"Shhh," he soothed. "It's ovah now. You'se here."

"Yeah," she smiled up at him. "I'se here. I'se home."

Joy blossomed in Spot's chest at her words and he leaned down to taste her lips again. In seconds the kiss deepened, the tangle of tongues soothing the pain of the last few days. He gripped her tightly, she clutched at his head as she eagerly accepted his passion.

Spot leaned over her, hungrily devouring her lips until a burning need for air tore his mouth away. He rained soft, gentle kisses over every inch of her face, her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids, until she pulled him back to her mouth with an impatient groan. With bruising intensity he ravished her mouth, greedily filling his senses with the taste, the scent, the feel of her. His body pressed tightly against her, pushing her deeper into the mattress. Pocket moved restlessly beneath him, her soft curves rubbing against him, stoking the fires of his rising need.

Pocket burrowed her fingers into his hair, eyes drifting closed as he bent his lips to her neck. Spot tasted the saltiness of her skin, licking hungrily at the pulse beating frantically at the base of the throat. Spurred on by her breathed sighs, he moved lower to nibble at her collarbone, shifting slightly for better access.

Her body tensed, she cried out sharply when he inadvertently bumped her injured shoulder. Spot froze, mouth open against her skin, horror breaking through the haze of his desire as he realized what he'd done. Quick as a flash he jumped off her, scrambling hastily to his feet. Spot's pale eyes shone with regret as he backed away from the bed.

"I'm sorry-I didn't mean ta . . ." he babbled nervously, angry at himself for having hurt her.

Spot hung his head in shame, unable to look at her. Self-recriminations echoed through his head, so loud in his mind that he didn't hear the rustle of the sheets as she left the bed to join him. He jumped at the touch of her hand on his chest, head jerking up to meet her eyes. Pocket smiled reassuringly, her face lit with gentle humor.

"I ain't that fragile," she chuckled, rubbing his chest comfortingly. "I ain't gonna break."

Her stroking hand was too much for him. Spot took a step backward, his need still too close to the surface to trust himself that close to her. He took another step back, needing distance to regain his control. Eyebrow raised, almost mockingly, she took a step toward him, laughing softly as he continued to back away. A predatory gleam shone in her eyes as she pursued him, answering his every backward step with a forward step of her own. Graceful as a huntress she advanced on him, stalking his retreat until his back hit the wall.

Pocket laughed triumphantly at the confusion on his face as he pressed against the wall to keep from touching her. Grinning wickedly, she closed he distance, rising on tiptoe to bring her mouth even with his.

"Whatcha runnin from?" she challenged, her lips moving against his, her body pressed suggestively against him.

Spot put his hand on her shoulder, forcing her away.

"I can't trust myself: he admitted, ashamed. "I wanna hold ya, and kiss ya, but ya feel so good and it just makes me want more. We gotta stop." He forced himself to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry," he finished lamely.

Pocket tilted her head to the side, studying him silently. He shivered her under her intent regard, closing his eyes in an effort to steady himself.

"Alright," she took pity on him. "No more kissin. Let's just go to bed."

Spot's shoulders relaxed in relief, if she'd argued with him, he knew he didn't have the strength to resist her. Had he not been so befuddled by passion he would have hear the odd tone of her voice, noticed the confident quirk of her lips.

Pocket took his hand gently in her smaller one, he allowed himself to be led across the room. With a light shove, she pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed. He watched suspiciously as she knelt to remove his socks, but she stood again with little more than an affectionate squeeze of his foot. His unease grew as she leand over him, tugging his shirt from the waist of his pants, her hands going to the buttons at his throat.

"Don't," he tried to stop her, but she ignored him, nimble fingers moving quickly down his chest, releasing the buttons that held his shirt closed.

"Pocket, stop," he protested again.

"I thought I told ya," she chided teasingly, " that I don't like when ya boss me around."

Spot started to argue but she placed a silencing finger on his lips. He sat helplessly as she reached the last of the buttons, sliding his shirt from his shoulders and tossing it carelessly aside. Shooting him a soft smile, she moved closer to run her hands up and down the length of his arms. Gooseflesh spread across his skin in the wake of her touch and he but his lip nervously as he awaited her next move.

Pocket settled herself more comfortably on his lap, her good arm sliding around to tickle his back. Her soft curls brushed against his bare chest as she placed a line of deliberate kisses along his shoulder. Spot held his breath when her mouth reached his throat, his body taut with longing. A low groan escaped him when her tongue darted out to taste his skin. His hands fisted in her hair to drag her wicked mouth away.

"I can't think when ya do that," he muttered hoarsely.

She giggled sweetly and returned to her ministrations, this time kissing a path along his jawline.

"Who says I want ya thinking?" she asked silkily, her breath hot on his ear, before bringing her lips to his.

Spot moaned defeatedly into her mouth, his control broken. His arms went around her, settling her fully onto his lap as they kissed each other eagerly. Every nerve in his body was alive as she wiggled against him, her hands roaming his back.

Somehow, he found himself lying across his bed with Pocket sprawled on top of him, the warm weight of her firing his senses. Giving in to his need, he buried his face in her neck, sucking hard at her skin, marking her as his own.

She sat up suddenly, drawing a frustrated cry from him. Her lips curved in a sultry smile as she gazed down with smoky eyes. His own eyes widened as she began to undo her shirt, his pupils so large only the barest hint of blue rimmed the edges. Spot licked his lips as she pulled her shirt off, baring herself to his inspection. Pocket didn't shrink away or try to hide herself from his hungry stare, she simply sat there, straddling his waist, shivering slightly as he studied her.

Spot had never seen anything so beautiful. He wished he knew a way to look at her and touch her at the same time, but instinctively his hands took over, rising automatically to cup her small breasts. Her head fell back as he stroked his thumbs over her skin, the moonlight shining on the smooth column of her throat.

Growling deep in his chest, Spot pulled her down to him, relishing the feel of her crushed against him as he devoured her mouth. Suddenly, they were both naked, hands frantically seeking and exploring, moving urgently, each trying desperately to get closer. Without knowing how he got there, Spot was once again poised above her, inches away from what he wanted more than he wanted his next breath.

Spot struggled to support his weight on arms that trembled with the effort to reign in his desire. Pocket looked up at his tightly clenched jaw, sensing the fierce battle he fought with himself. She ran a gently hand through his hair, smiling up at him expectantly.

"We can stop," he managed to rasp. "Ya don't have ta . . ."

"Shhh," she scolded. "An' when have I evah done anythin' I didn't want ta?"

He nodded slowly but continued to hold back. "I don't wanna hurt ya," he whispered.

"Ya won't," she answered simply meeting his gaze without fear.

The trust in her eyes brought moisture welling up in his own for the second time that day. How lucky he was to have her here with him. He was so afraid of hurting her, and even more afraid that if he followed through with this, she would hate him tomorrow. Spot didn't think he could handle seeing regret on her face in the morning.

Seeing his fear, she reached up to loop her arms around his neck, puling him closer.

"Please, Michael," she entreated huskily, the sound of his given name crushing the last of his resistance.

This time, Spot allowed the tears to fall, spilling silently down his cheeks as he made her his. His tears mingled with her own as she welcomed him home. Spot thought his heart with explode from the intensity of his feelings. They moved as one, he tried desperately to remember everything. Soon her gasps gave way to low whimpers and then to moans that echoes his own harsh cries as they reached higher.

Stars burst behind his eyes as she shook beneath him. Finally they shattered together, his name torn from her lips at the same moment he collapsed on top of her.

"Katie," he spoke her name softly, like a prayer, a benediction.

They lay quietly in the aftermath, to sated to move or do anything but gasp for breath. His limbs felt heavy and he eased himself off her, worried he might crush her. She whimpered at his departure and followed him when he rolled to the side to snuggle against him, her leg thrown over his, head pillowed on his chest.

Almost reverently, he combed his fingers through the dark tangle of her hair.

"Ya know I love ya, right?" he asked her.

She smiled contentedly against his neck. "Right," she answered smugly.

Spot let a few moments pass before he spoke again.

"Well?" he prompted.

"What?" Pocket grumbled. "Ya want me ta say it?"

"Might be nice," he commented.

"Fine, ya baby," she faked a beleaguered sigh then raised her head to look him in the eye.

"I love ya, Michael Conlon," she said clearly.

"Of course ya do," he smirked.

"Cocky bastard," she thumped his chest, drawing a laugh.

"Hey," he caught her hand, his voice serious now. "This mean you'se me goil again?"

Pocket propped her chin in her hand, gazing at him solemnly.

"Brooklyn," she declared, "I'm afraid you'se stuck with me."

He grinned up at her, but his eyes still held a hint of caution.

"What about when we's fightin?" he questioned softly.

"Well," she stretched against him, reminding him of their intimate embrace. "We'se got a perfect way ta make up now, yeah?"

Spot chuckled, pulling her up to cover him fully, planting a kiss on her nose.

"That we do."

He kissed her again, holding her tightly as she rubbed against him.

"Wait," he moved his lips away before he lost himself to passion again, ignoring her frustrated groan.

"So ya ain't worried about otha goils?" he pressed, needing to have everything settled.

Pocket leaned over him with a scowl as good as any the King of Brooklyn could muster.

"Conlon, if ya evah touch anotha goil," she promised, "I'll throw her in the rivah an' kick yer ass from here ta Staten Island an' back."

Spot laughed heartily, rolling them both over until she was pinned beneath him.

"That's me goil," he praised as he took her mouth again.

Spot grinned silently to himself as their movements became more purposeful. He kissed her deeply and claimed her once again.

Spot Conlon had no doubt that Pocket would make good on her threat if he ever stepped out of line. She was a force to be reckoned with, his queen, and that was why he loved her.


End file.
